


One Night, One Morning

by bulletandsophia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Canon Universe, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, post-Season Seven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2018-12-25 16:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12040179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulletandsophia/pseuds/bulletandsophia
Summary: It is the calling that creeps in the shadow before it howls. Like some old innocent love story or song that eventually lashes to fight for a bitter, cruel end.





	1. Betrayal & Lies

**Author's Note:**

> For a Jonsa Tumblr prompt which I totally blew out of proportions! I hope I did the ask some justice! :)

_ i _ _._

 

It was not supposed to be this way.

There should have been some sort of resonance in this small victory—the feeling of a new-found hope underneath the loud screeches of the two dragons nestling just beyond the Wolfswood. It should have been a warm homecoming with arms wide open to welcome the returned; with soft smiles to share and impart—a kiss even, to be stolen. But Winterfell’s gates creaked in agony as the hoard of foreign men settle inside the courtyard looking tired and displeased yet still carried deep within their bones that flair of such untoward Southern arrogance that made the common folks take a step back and cram themselves to the sides.

Her people. Disregarded in their own home.

Sansa knows in her heart it should not have been this way.

Where the chair her father once sat upon now sits a woman with pale, silvery hair; where the grumbles and the low but familiar voices of her northern lords are silenced in slight disbelief and perhaps, even fear—of the unknown forces, of their foreign languages, and also, of their undeniable strength.

Ruthless, Sansa thinks. To have them—this Dragon Queen—take it all away just because she can.

Just because she wants to.

Foolishly, Sansa thought of the one reprieve in this disaster that dwells upon their kingdom. Glancing up from her seat at one of the Great Hall’s long table, and there just beside the pale queen on the newly built dais, frowning and aimlessly knifing at the rare meat on their plate, is the man whom she once, thousands of years ago, thought of as a stranger.

 _Forgive me_.

_There’s nothing to forgive._

In her mind, Sansa urges him to look at her. To help her see light at this sudden and suffocating shift; as if like a labyrinth that intends to trap her there.

 _Jon_.

She calls in her head, eyes never leaving the sight of him.

_I am here._

But he doesn’t budge.

He only moves when the Dragon Queen whispers something in his ear, pointing at a group of Dothrakis roaring with laughter at the other end of the hall.

He smiles then and it renders Sansa to a jolt. The pain, although quiet, is unexpected.

She grips her fork tightly, taking one last glance at his face and compelling herself to remember him, the _real him_ before all of this chaos. So instead, she forces herself to look away only to avoid any other trivialities growing in her chest. But evidently (and how idiotic of her), she’s truly unable to not look back, thoughts still seeping with hope that she could get to see the man she has missed.

She wills for him to look at her once more. And for a fleeting moment, he finally does. But beyond the fur cloak she’s made, Sansa realizes, he only looks like a stranger once more.

 

 

 _ ii _ _._

 

The gray of her skirt flutters as she walks silently away from the Great Hall.

He notices, of course. He always does.

But the notion of not letting anyone else see this side of him brimming with the one weakness that floods his mind day and night is the only thing that remains emboldened in his consciousness.

 _No one can know_.

Jon cannot remember how many times he has convinced himself of that thought. The ambiguity of it reduces him into feeling like a child reprimanded by Ser Rodrik in the training yard because, _what truly can no one know?_ His misplaced and forced loyalty to the dragon crown? The sudden and painful throbbing in his chest as he was welcomed not by angry Northerners as he expected but worse: a disheartened and disappointed men? That it sill jars him to his core because is this what he has made of them, after exchanging their independence for an alliance? An alliance already hanging by a fine, thin, and unpredictable thread?

Or is it, simply, if honesty is his weapon, about that certain restriction this politics has forced him to partake; that while he came back home with some semblance of hope in defeating the White Walkers, he still can’t have the one he wants the most; the one he’s most longed for?

The one with fire in her hair and winter in her eyes.  

His memories of Sansa, those that they only truly share together after their reunion, after the hardships of battling the Boltons, after all the heated conversations with the Northern lords wherein, as soon as the hall’s door closes, it leaves them alone and at peace with the warmth of the hearth crackling that he has made a fearful and yet certain discovery not only about her, but importantly, about himself and his wants and his needs _of her_ —those memories, those he kept close to his heart are now the ones hidden in the far corner of his consciousness for if he allows himself to even think of what could have been, if he had not left for Dragonstone, Jon simply knows that he would break.

_We never should have left Winterfell._

The truth faintly echoes in his head once more.

Bran and Arya sit quietly at the high table at his side. A peculiar setup, truly, for another Stark is not placed with them. He ignores the side glances of Lady Mormont or the disgruntled and almost angry frown of Lady Brienne and Podrick. But this scenario, where the hall is thick with false acceptance and revelries, where Bran and Arya sit closely by his side simply because he refused to sit anywhere without them, is something Jon had already foreseen the moment Sansa refused to bend the knee.

Sansa seated at the high table can only magnify her unending influence over the kingdom he had just given away. So, she belongs to the low tables instead, like some bastard. Like him. Disposed easily by the queen because she has not heeded to her demands.

 _Bend the knee or burn, Lady Stark_.

Jon grips the stem of his goblet tighter for the unfairness of it all.

“More wine?” the queen asks him.

Jon shakes his head and feels the need to get away, to find some solace; search for Sansa and appease himself from this grave but desperate mistake. The more he stays in the hall and only to be surrounded by strange cackling and stranger crowds, the more he’d also now rather face the Night King instead.

To get this all over with. 

He moves ever so slightly to finally stand but the queen is sharp and immediate with her words.

“ _Don’t leave_.”

He looks at her, challenging and yet knowing. Her expression tells more than what he had allowed himself to comprehend all those moons ago in Dragonstone.

 _They will see you for who you truly are_.

 _She wants me._ Jon knows now for sure. _And only she shall have me._

This strength of the silver-haired queen should have been incomparable, admirable. But this strength only also begs to be challenged, to be questioned, for power should not show itself only in the moments of terror and indecisions. True power, Jon knows, is the ability to not even wield, ask, and beg for it; it must form itself from the natural thrust of anything and _everything_ that surrounds it. It is the calling that creeps in the shadow before it howls. Like some old innocent love story or song that eventually lashes to fight for a bitter, cruel end.

Sansa is this power.

And the queen knows this too.

For she is neither a rose nor a lion, not a kraken nor a dragon. No, she’s a wolf—the wolf that has led her pack with as much grace and intelligence Jon only regrets to never have witnessed such beauty every single day. So how else can a foreign queen destroy the pack but to keep them all apart? By asking the most foolish one to leave and join her side of fire and blood? All for the sake of dawn, perhaps. All for the sake of another tomorrow.

 _But how worthy_ , Jon laments, _is another tomorrow without Sansa by his side?_

Beside him, Jon feels Arya reach for her sword, reading too much too unto the vague threat of the queen. He settles back then only to stop her, reaching her small shaking hands.

 _Not now, little sister_.

He wonders, how much longer can they— _can he_ —endure this all?

 

 

 _ iii _ _._

 

The snow is gently falling into the godswood and Sansa welcomes the familiar silence.

The small feast is still not over but she knows only those who came from the south are enjoying much of the warmth Winterfell offers.

Patience, she asked of her lords. Patience until the war for dawn is over. Patience until we fight for our independence again.

 _Patience_.

But the waiting, for sure, is pure agony.

She sits by the large boulder just underneath the branches where her father also used to rest. Perhaps, Sansa thinks, this seat can become the new northern throne rather than the wooden one in the hall. The godswood is no place for any southerner anyhow. In here, perhaps no fire can survive.

She is almost pulled into a sweet, sweet calm and lethargy when she hears the crunching of boots on the snow and her heart leaps in another round of desperate and foolish hopes because, as always, the first in her thoughts, _has he finally followed her?_

“I am so very sorry to interrupt, my lady.”

Sansa turns to the voice, surprised to find this other familiar man approaching, not denying that while it deflates her not to see Jon, Tyrion Lannister still carries with him the kindness he has shown her in King’s Landing.

She urges him to come. He smiles at her, unsure, but settles just the same on a low white branch.

“I thought the godswood would be empty tonight.” he says, opening the leather flask he carries. “Someone once told me, it’s the only place where one can never be bothered.”

Sansa smiles at that, relieved that at least someone remembers what it has been like for her too.

How long has it truly been?

“How are you my lord?”

Tyrion shrugs. “It does not matter, should it? What are the weight of our little mishaps when the rest of the world faces the bigger threats of war and death?”

Sansa looks away, feeling like a child once more for he speaks true. How can she be selfishly thinking of her wants when there are more bigger things that matter? All of her hopes and childish dreams do not belong to their world that stenches of death.

 _Patience_ , she reiterates again.

“But,” Tyrion exhales, as if sensing his mistake at her sudden and painful silence. He drinks from his flask before continuing. “As we are the only two people in this frozen woods, I dare say our mishaps matter most here.”

She looks at him wistfully then. “What troubles you then, my lord?”

He chuckles. “ _Everything_ , my lady Sansa. Everything.”

She takes a deep breath and leans on the trunk of the heart tree.

“I am troubled that the queen has come to Westeros and all for naught,” Tyrion starts to speak again. “I am troubled that it is getting harder and harder to place sense into her. I am troubled that her certain greed to rule could one day be her end. I am troubled that this madness is already overcoming the goodness of her heart.”

“You do not believe in her anymore?”

Tyrion eyes her carefully. “I have not said that.”

 _But you didn’t have to_ , Sansa thinks.

He takes another swig from the flask. “Jon, _your king_ , helps make her see sense.”

Sansa ignores the pain again. She does not want to hear more of it but if this is the only way to understand all these sudden shifts and loyalties, and then yes, she will listen to Tyrion Lannister all night.

“The queen loves him. Or at least, she is fond of him.” Tyrion simply states. “And what do they say about people smitten with other people? _Some fools_.”

“Jon is no fool.” Sansa almost says passionately. _At least that’s what I know of him_.

Tyrion quirks an eyebrow. “Perhaps.”

She sighs, leaning forward and resting her arms on her lap. “This can’t be all of it, my lord. I refuse to believe that we have endured all that we have endured only to see an end where we remain to be the forgotten. My sister said this to me once, that when the god of death comes, we only have one thing to say.”

“And what is it?”

“ _Not today._ ”

Tyrion lifts his flask as a toast before gulping more wine.

“If the dead comes, I sure hope you are safe in the south, my lady. Go to your uncle in the Riverlands. Let the queen and Jon Snow face the army of the dead. Her dragons—”

“No.” Sansa stubbornly cut him off and forcefully exclaims, “I will never abandon my home. Not again.”

He nods. “I wish your father could see you now.”

“I wish that too.”

“To House Stark?” he lifts the wine again.

“To House Stark.”

Tyrion passes the flask and Sansa takes a sip then hands it back to Tyrion’s waiting hands. He takes another drink.

“What happens after, Lord Tyrion?” she asks then as she feels the wine settles. “After the dawn comes again, what happens?”

He looks thoughtful even if his gaze is faraway and into the darkened, snowy woods around. “If the war is won against the dead, then the war against the living begins. Do you think my sister will hand the Iron Throne simply because the dragon queen saved humanity? No, Cersei will not care for that. Because for what it’s worth, humanity remains to be humanity’s greatest enemy. No Night King can become the greatest villain.”

“I will _never_ pledge the North to a Lannister.”

“It’s not yours to pledge anymore, my lady. Jon has—“

“Jon needs to do what he needs to do.” Sansa still despairingly believes. “It’s the White Walkers he’s more worried about. But ask him about the politics of the South and see if he cares. And your dragon queen, she does not own the North either. We bow to no southerner anymore.”

“Sansa,” Tyrion whispers as if in warning. “The queen _will_ take what is hers with fire and blood. The North is hers by succession. Jon is—”

“ _Jon is not hers_.” she almost spats. “He is of the North and the North is mine. _He is mine_.”

Then the realization of what she had just uttered dawns a little too late. The horror creeps up slowly while the silence consumes the godswood. Sansa is terrified to look now at her once-husband. Her words are fleeting and few but she knows they weigh more than all the snow in the world.

“I am afraid I do not have enough wine for this.” Tyrion teases after a lengthy and knowing pause but offers a kind, understanding smile.

Sansa sighs and reaches for his extended hand and takes the leather flask. She drinks, the wine filling her mouth and lining her throat as she gulps.

It tastes bitter and it tastes sweet.

 

 

 _iv_.

 

Jon pushes the window open.

He does not like the warmth of the room—or of how it still smells of lavender and lemon, of how it looks so much just like her; with the newly woven tapestry of direwolves hanging by the wall, the feel of the softest fur on his fingertips, the dresses behind the thin wooden divider he dares not to look and admire, the array of brushes she use for her fiery hair, the parchment and ledgers on her desks filled with her words, her writings, her wisdom, _her, her, her_..

Why is he in her room? Why are _they_ in her room?

The Lady of Winterfell’s chambers belong to the Lady of Winterfell. Yet here he is, in his small clothes; brooding in the wrong room with the wrong bed and with the wrong woman to placate.

The thud and guilt in his chest amplify. Jon did more than once have actually considered wanting this—truly wanting this; this scenario where the queen waits for him, anticipates his kisses, his pleasures, his longing and yet, every time he tries to do so, to look at her lilac eyes and bask in her undeniable beauty, something remains amiss. Something still does not sit right.

Jon knows how easy it is to succumb to the sins of the body, countless times he’s heard his brothers at the Wall crave for it especially on cold and lonely nights. And him, wanting this with the queen could begin and end everything— _simplify it_. He could love her and this would erase his fears of her abandoning his cause; removing her own doubts that he’d place his loyalty with the Lannisters.

But loving her, no matter how easy it could be, would not be real.

“Jon?”

He takes a sideway glance, looking at the faint silhouette of her and her silvery hair as she stirs then sits on the bed.

“Are you not cold there?” she asks softly.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

 _No, I am of the North. I could never be cold_.

The gnawing sensation at the back of his neck returns for here, relentlessly, he could never be at peace. This invasion of the dragon queen and her retinue runs deep not only within the walls of the keep but even within the veins of his consciousness and his thoughts.

Simply, Jon does not want to be bothered by her. And he does not care much for her intrusion and concern now.

“Tell me what worries you.”

He opens his eyes. “ _Nothing._ ”

She fills the silence again, “I thought it was a lovely feast your siblings prepared.”

 _That Sansa prepared_.

“I knew I had fair warning about how stubborn the northerners are.” she continues. “But your sister, Sansa, reminds me so much of you.”

It takes all of Jon’s will to not glare and reprimand her for she does not know Sansa. She does not know the North. She does not know Arya or Bran or little Lady Mormont. She should not speak of those she does not know. Is it not enough that she already has the north to rule for her to even take this quiet intimacy away from him? He wills her in his head to stop talking, to go back to sleep and let him endure the pain in peace.

“Do you love her—your _Sansa?_ ”

Jon stills. He turns for the suddenness and the randomness of the question and then meets her judging and challenging gaze.

“That’s what you whispered,” she says now, not backing down her stare. “As you made love to me, you whispered her name. _Sansa_.”

Shame momentarily erupts in his chest for he knows, in a moment of weakness and lapse, he did so. Always as he closes his eyes during their coupling, the remorse eats him up for he is betraying Sansa again and again. But this shame now is only instantly replaced with fury for only she, the dragon queen, with her disdainful and still challenging expression, could dare and question such devotion as if Sansa does not deserve his admiration, his love; for only a queen like her can be served with the truth—see it, hear of it, and be _betrayed by it_ and yet still render the reality as if insignificant, as if something she must trample with her feet.

“Well, do you?” she repeats again.

And so, he dives for it and tells her of what she wants to know. If only to keep her quiet. And if this confession kills him, then let it be so.

 _I’m tired of fighting_.

And if in his second death where it would deliver him back into the darkness, he knows he left this world fighting with Sansa’s name as the last that his lips mumbled.

“What kind of a question is that?” he stares back then pointedly, “ _Of course_ , I love her.”

Jon revels at the slight twitch on her features—perhaps in shock for the truth in his words are raw and palpable enough to be touched, to be burned, to be showered in blood.

 _Let it simmer in you_ , he thinks. _Let it be excruciating. Let it be ruthless, just like you are with her._

Because I love her.

I love her. I love her.

He loves Sansa more than enough to fight again for life, fight again for the life that has been unfair to him since the beginning of time.

The queen does not move only for the swift way she pulls the furs further up her torso, her expression tumbling between sorrowful and angry for she knows, he does not lie.

But this, exactly this disposition of the dragon queen, exactly this impulsive behavior as she now suddenly stands, naked and emboldened with her strides and only to pull his head down to meet hers, for her to kiss him deeply, harshly—this endless, selfish strife to fulfill her wants prompts Jon to utter the next words that darkly resonates, _forever_.

He turns away for the bitterness in this other truth is something the queen will take joy in and he does not want to see it.

Agonizingly, he whispers into the night, “She’s my sister.”

 

 

 _v_.

 

Mornings are supposed to present a new sense of hope and a renewed kind of energy. But after breaking her fast alone in her old childhood chambers, Sansa has already foregone the notion of keeping play with the politics today.

 _Rest. Perhaps today I shall rest_ _my heart_.

But she is not well within her slumber when she hears a knock on her door. She allows the visitor entry and watches as Lady Brienne enters soundly.

“My lady,” she starts. “Your brother asks of you.”

“My brother?”

_Which one?_

“Bran.” Brienne clarifies.

Sansa pulls herself up and fastens her robes and cloak. She could and would give time for Bran. Always.

She enters Bran’s chambers only to be rendered to a jolt once more for they are not alone. In the armchair sits Samwell Tarly, on the bed lays Arya playing with her dagger, and right in front of the hearth, staring at the flames, stands Jon with the cloak she’s made secure on his back.

“Close the door, Sansa,” Bran tells her. “There is much to discuss.”

She does not want to look nor give Jon a gaze but Jon turns to meet her eyes the moment Bran mentions her name. Then, she does not see him at first and only when he nudges his head to her hand does Sansa feel Ghost standing just right beside her too. But then quickly, she ignores this and followed Bran’s lead instead. Latching the door close, Sansa turns to face her family again with the view of the open window in the background, giving her a peculiar scene of a dragon perched on top a snowy hill from a far.

Then, as she sits beside Arya and faraway from Jon, Bran falls into some sort of trance and begins to speak.

 

* * *

 


	2. Loyalties & Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Outside, she can also hear the screeches of the dragons. Screeching in anger, in despair, in some sort of anguish and betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, due to popular demand, here's another chapter for this fic! :) I've created a plot for this supposed one-shot and ended up with a three-chapter output so there's definitely one more, which I can hopefully finish by next week, or the next :P. Anyway, here you go! P.S.: I haven't thoroughly gone through the text to proofread yet so expect minor changes and edits in the next few days, in case of any errors. Thanks!

_ vi _ _._

 

Winterfell’s halls stand quietly amidst the heavy and foreign grumbles of soldiers and stewards and carpenters working tirelessly to prepare the keep and its armory for the onslaught of winter and the dead. The glass gardens also rattle furiously with the howling and the curses of the wind. The remaining men and women, no matter their sigil—wolf, falcon, dragon—keep up with the demands of more blankets, and furs, and grains, that any deeply rooted scathe against each other are for now settled in the far corners of rooms, waiting to be revisited once the victory of dawn has come.

This certain calm and harmony, while odd for most of the common folks, on the other hand is ultimately unnerving for the once bastard of Winterfell. For despite its glorious unity and wonder, Jon already feels as if the world has irreversibly shifted right before he could even grasp it in full. Even the threat of the Night King that also once made his skin tremble in both fear and anger, cannot anymore be compared to the way his heart now beats so shallowly, so painfully there is nothing left to feel but the numbness of the truth. There’s nothing to feel in his bones; on his tight grip around Longclaw’s pommel and not, most especially, in the blood flowing in his veins where only the lies of Ned Stark still thrive and live.

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow_.

He sits on the boulder underneath the Heart Tree in the godswood, unmindful of the blowing winds and the heavy fall of snow. Arya is pacing not far from where he is, as if standing guard, Needle and her Valyrian dagger secured around her waist.

“I don’t care.” was the first she uttered when Bran finishes his story on that fateful morning. “I don’t care about any of that! Jon will always be my brother. _The Targaryens can eat shit and die again._ ”

 _“Arya!”_ Sansa admonished.

But Jon—feeling the warmth of the hearth in Bran’s room where his once little brother stared stoically at his numb figure, where Sansa’s words floated around him too and sounding so, so sweet in his ears where its concern and slight anger nudged him hard enough to realize that she was undeniably in that uncertainty too with herself; where it only urged and allured him to take a step closer and find solace in her arms and in her words—cannot even, _for the life of him_ , dare to meet her gaze, afraid of what he might find there, afraid that while the truth of his parentage still hung around them like some putrid and rotten carcass, she will look away.

 _You are not father’s son_. Bran’s words echo in Jon’s head again and it strikes him harder that he can only cower in his seat. _You are Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark’s son._

“It will be night soon.” he hears Arya say, staring pensively into the silhouette of the keep. “We have to go back or they’ll come looking for us.”

Jon grumbles but doesn’t move. He hears the crunch of her boots as she moves closer.

“Do you want to run away?” she inquires. Jon looks up finally for faintly, her tone reminds him of Arya when she was barely a little girl of six, smiling toothily at him as she tells of her planned menace upon the cooks. It warms him, this image of little Arya in his head and of the thousands of other memories he shared with her and of Robb, and even of the others right here inside this keep. But in its haziness, he also finds the smallest of cracks that allow the coldness of the truth to seep in because, and perhaps, all those memories do not matter anyhow; perhaps, all of it were also just a lie.

“We can sail to Braavos and forget this all.” Arya reiterates. “After I kill Cersei, of course.”

How tempting is it, to leave it all behind? To not anymore care about the land that has utterly and ultimately betrayed him one too many times? With a stab to his heart and a stab to his soul? What is he to Winterfell now when he does not even belong in this keep anymore?

 _Let them burn then_ , he thinks. _Let them freeze to their deaths._

“Jon,” Arya sighs beside him. He wants to ignore her still but she crouches and takes his hand in hers. “Nothing has to change.”

She sits too close that the little details and features of her long face surprise him for a moment. Her eyes reflect the color of his own but Jon can tell of its certain and inimitable darkness. He can also perceive too the horrors it has already seen; perhaps even worse than the scenarios he could fathom at the moment. Her lips do not anymore embody too that toothy smile, nor her cheeks remain round and soft but instead, it is now all angles and cheekbones.

 _No, little sister_ , he wants to tell her. _Everything has already changed_.

But as she still crouches in front of him and the grip she has on his hands only becomes tighter as if in reassurance, Jon realizes, that thought too would be wrong. That it too, would be a lie.

For while she looks so different now from how his memories paint her—that it pains him to accept that this world did not spare little girls from its evils—and while the comfort she brings with her now is realized as she becomes his protector instead of him becoming hers, while perhaps the truth of his parentage could alter so many other realities in this world including his own self, Arya, his favorite sister Arya, _is still_ the Arya Stark he knows and loves.

 _She is here_.

Like she always has been when they were younger and the torment and jealousy of his then bastardy get the better of him.

Decidedly, Jon finally indulges himself in an act so desperate and yet so familiar he can only hope it brings them a certain nostalgic joy and euphoria for while the world robs them of their innocence, their hopes, _their identity_ , it cannot, no matter how hard it tries, take everything away from them at this moment now in the godswood. So as if just planning on their next mischief to torment Old Nan, Jon ruffles Arya’s hair just like the way he had done so thousands and thousands of years ago.

Playfully, carelessly, almost roughly.

He smiles.

Arya smiles at him too, then frowns as she utters her next words in whisper, “I’ve almost forgotten how that smile looks like…”

She does not realize what happens next and perhaps she will hate herself for it later—Jon knows for sure—but he wipes a tear that rolls down her cheek, unmindful of his own gently falling on their intertwined hands. The wind blows a colder one but neither of them even shivers. They are both of the North. They are used to the cold. Arya takes her hand back only to wipe the tears from her face. She stands again and recomposes herself.

Crying is not for girls like her. Not anymore.

“Perhaps, we can stay a little bit longer.” she smiles again, as if a secret has been made between them, as if they are once again the only two long-faced Starks that understand each other. She grips the thin and gleaming pommel of Needle as she walks back to stand guard at her perimeter and gives him his wanted solitary.

Jon returns her smile even if her back is already turned. Then into the wind he whispers so easily, “Thank you, _little sister_.”

 

 

 _vii_.

 

The day has been too long and too tiring that Sansa cannot even fathom how she survived it all.

The lords and the ladies were first frantic in not seeing Jon in the Great Hall at supper but only to be rendered into silence when the dragon queen walked the aisle with Tyrion and her handmaiden. She can only stare then at her place from the low tables to Bran on the dais as the queen addressed him politely. They conversed quickly, perhaps only exchanging some pleasantries.

Bran only looked to her direction once, with a hint of a smile, an attempt perhaps to reassure her that no, he did not tell the dragon queen.

They had all decided, despite the shock that still trembled in between them then, to keep the truth about Jon from everyone else. She did not dare look at him as the secret unfolded from Bran’s lips—and then from Samwell Tarly’s—despite the agony filling her chest, afraid of what she might do, afraid to overwhelm him further not when, she knew clearly, that he was suffering enough.

 _I need to be what he needs me to be_ , she remembers thinking. _I need to be the Lady of Winterfell_.

While the quietness then enveloped them in Bran’s room, she was quick to compose herself and direct orders, telling Sam to go on as if nothing had happened and help Maester Wolkan in whatever else needed to be done in the keep, subtly ordering him too to remind Gilly not to divulge what she had discovered. She had also asked him to go through Winterfell’s own library for any parchment or books that might give even the slightest of hints to the union of Rhaegar and Lyanna—and then to keep it away from any one’s reach.

After, she strode the chamber with a longing glance at Jon who was sitting by the hearth, looking slumped and lost, not daring to even peek at her retreating figure. Arya stood beside him protectively.

“Everything will be alright,” she whispered weakly to them all. Only Bran had given her the faintest of smiles before staring back into the fire.

And so, right now, at this moment in the quiet of her own old chambers, with the familiar handiwork of silk and thread keeping her company, Sansa allows herself to not think anymore. Not even of Jon. Arya was not in the hall too during supper and there is no doubt they are keeping each other company—and fittingly so, for Arya would know what to do. She would not meddle him with her own thoughts and her own feelings, not in the way Sansa has the tendency to do so.

_Patience._

_Patience, patience, patience,_ she chants to herself. _This will all be over soon_.

Whether it would be because of the threats of Cersei and the dragon queen or the threats of the White Walkers, Sansa is not even sure anymore. All she knows is that this torture cannot go on forever. It’s either she wins from it or she succumbs to it all. With a sigh, she returns to her work with the silk and thread, determined to finish before she finally goes to a deserved sleep.

But in the middle of it all, the night suddenly erupts with a flurry of movements that Sansa glances at the closed door upon hearing the clanging of armors. Placing her materials back in the basket, Sansa stands just in time to hear the frantic knocks on her door. She hastily crosses the room to answer.

“My lady,” Podrick stands in the corridor with a deep frown and evident worry in his eyes. “You have to go to the Great Hall immediately.”

Sansa closely follows Podrick as he leads her, noticing how he ignores her questions and instead mumbles incoherent words. Sansa can only decipher that he was probably ordered by Brienne not to tell her anything until she comes to the hall herself.

They arrive quickly and as Podrick finally pushes the door open, Sansa is welcomed by perhaps one of most peculiar tableaus she has ever seen in her lifetime. Because there, sitting on the high table are Tyrion Lannister and his dragon queen with the northern lords still billeted at the lower tables. But then there too, both standing in the middle of the aisle, backs still turned to her, are Brienne of Tarth and Jaime Lannister.

“Ser Jaime,” she breathes in surprise.

In that moment, Sansa cannot even comprehend how all eyes have turned towards her and her entrance—only, Jaime Lannister hears her despite the thickness in the room and turns to meet her gaze. There is a determined look on his face that Sansa finds odd for she can only remember him for the certain arrogance and charms of the south. He steps closer despite Brienne’s pleas for him not to do anything stupid.

Then Sansa panics.

Is he here to kill her? Does Cersei want her head?

But as he nears and with only a few feet of distance between them—and just when Sansa can already hear too the murmurs of the other lords and of their gesture of reaching for the hilts of their swords—Jaime Lannister, the golden boy of Casterly Rock and the pride and joy of Tywin Lannister, soundly _kneels_ at her feet.

She hears the scrape of chairs and the shout of his name but again, Jaime ignores this.

“I offer my services, Lady Sansa.” he begins, looking up at her. Another shout of his name erupts from the dais but like him, Sansa ignores this. She is in too much of a trance with what is unfolding right in front of her. “I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for you if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

Her silence at his declaration eats the entire hall. She wants to look elsewhere but she wonders, _where else_? Not to Tyrion and his desperate calls, not to the dragon queen, not even to Brienne who also seems displeased with this because, why do this? Why do this now? Why do this to Cersei Lannister, why do this in front of the Targaryen queen?

“I once made an oath to your mother too.” he whispers almost gravely. “And I will honor that promise.”

“ _Ser Jaime_.”

“I would have offered you my sword, Lady Sansa.” explains Jaime as he takes a sideway glance at the high table. “If only it was not taken away from me at the gates.”

It is Tyrion who speaks, his voice almost trembling—in anger, in fear, in a certain desperation. “Stop this nonsense, Jaime. Lady Sansa is very much protected in this keep. My brother, I need you to swear fealty—“

“Little brother, this is already bigger than the two of us and of some iron chair _._ ”

Sansa finally dares to look at the high table. The dragon queen is on her feet and is looking at the side of the hall, unable to witness what is happening right in front of her. Tyrion is already in the middle of the aisle beside Brienne with an almost pleading look on his face. For her, for Jaime, Sansa does not know.

Outside, she can also hear the screeches of the dragons. Screeching in anger, in some sort of anguish and betrayal.

Sansa calculates swiftly in her mind all of the repercussions this vow will entail. She looks at Brienne but her other knight only warns her with the slight shake of her head. But this scenario, where it was once in the middle of a deep, frozen forest, where they barely escaped Ramsay’s guards, where they were both disheveled and cold, where sapphire eyes looked up at her instead of Jaime Lannister’s infamous green ones, Sansa can see too the same memory flooding in Brienne’s mind that while they both know it is unfit to do this in front of the dragon queen—where it should have been done instead in the peace of her chambers or in the quiet of the godswood—still, in the scheme of things, perhaps this declaration in front of the entire north and its conquering monarch, is the only way to truly assess his intention and loyalty.

The dragons screech louder again overhead.

Sansa hears Tyrion say another plea.

“Do not fear, my brother.” Jaime implores then in return. “ _I am not afraid_.”

The words resound in Sansa’s head like an epiphany.

_My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel._

_I am a wolf. I am the blood of Winterfell._

_I could be brave._

“My lady?” Jaime asks her again.

Raising her chin, Sansa finally opens her mouth to speak, “And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

The hall erupts again into a deafening silence mixed with the heavy breathings of everyone around. But unbothered, Jaime Lannister stands and takes her hand. He kisses it and turns back to the high table.

“I bid you good evening, _your grace_.” he announces. “I told you, I meant no harm.”

The dragon queen finally glances at their direction but she ultimately ignores him. Instead, Sansa feels her lilac eyes on her.

“I think it’s time for us to talk, Lady Sansa.”

 

 

 _viii_.

 

The quiet returns to the hall and only the crackling of the torches and the hearth remain. The queen still sits at the high table and Sansa finds herself comfortable in one of the benches near the dais.

“An eventful evening,” the queen initiates.

Sansa looks up. The queen is not staring at her as she first feared but she gazes at the lone candle atop the high table, as if in a trance or in wonder—perhaps, in doubt.

“Indeed.” Sansa can only utter.

Then, the silver-haired queen shifts, turning to her finally. “I’ve only heard of your name once, at passing when my Hand told me of his story in King’s Landing. He’s very fond of you, you know. There was a certain admiration he held for you. But with how he describes you then, I thought you of a little girl.”

Then wistfully she adds, “I could never be more wrong.”

“Your grace,” Sansa tries to appease. “I was truly a little girl wedded to Tyrion. A long time had passed since then. We’ve parted soon enough.”

"And from the time you left the capital, would you say you’ve grown since, Lady Sansa?”

A loaded question, Sansa knows.

_Shall I tell the queen how I’ve grown and learned of the game? Shall I tell the queen of the blood I spilled, of the men I’ve killed?_

Any answer now could paint her as either a woman the queen should fear—or a woman the queen shall eliminate.

Sansa takes a moment, studying the foreign woman as she sits watching her too from the dais. Behind her paleness—from her silver hair to her white cloak—Sansa takes notice instead of the wolf banners hanging by the fireplace. They are still and almost hidden by the glow of the fire but even in its faintness, Sansa asks and takes courage from it, easily imagining too the ghost of Ned Stark hovering and staring proudly down at her. Then it is Robb and his kind smile; her mother, beautiful and fiery, as she holds the hand of young Rickon who has the most carefree grin she has ever seen.

Sansa’s heart painfully pounds at the sudden unfairness that creeps on her back. All the horrors of the past resurface instantly for despite her sweet and blissful childhood in this exact chamber, her memories cannot serve her with just the goodness of this world for in truth, as she has learned from the people who have hurt her, as she recognizes it fully once again as the queen still stares down from Ned Stark’s chair—it has always been a place filled with different kinds of evils.

 _They did not die for nothing_ , she swears then. _For I shall be both the queen’s enemy and the one she fears._

The queen may have forgotten about them, those who perished in the wars of the land she selfishly conquers and appropriates; whose bones now become the stronghold of the keep she stands in but the north remembers.

 _I remember_.

So disdainfully and straightforwardly, not letting go of her gaze, Sansa whispers. “You do not belong here.”

The queen raises an eyebrow, as if in challenge. “I don’t?”

_“Do you?”_

“I am the rightful queen of the seven kingdoms. Heir to the Iron Throne. Why should I not belong here?”

Sansa bites her cheek to stop herself. The answers are already on the tip of her tongue, the truth threatening to spill and run amok in this Great Hall. She reminds herself then of his gray eyes, of that forlorn look he had by the hearth at Bran’s room; then of their quiet moments at Castle Black as he recounted the betrayal of his brothers, as they argued on the eve of the battle against the Boltons, as he discussed the threats of the Night King and his armies— _anything_ and _everything_ else they have suffered together—just to help her keep her composure for a little longer, to endure this further.

For him. For how the world has already beaten and won against him. 

Jon.

 _Her Jon_.

Her heart breaks in this moment and she wonders, would the queen’s heart break too if she knows the truth? Of what he’s been through? Will it make her weep and lay awake each night, unable to do anything but to simply keep hoping that it would get better? That another sunrise would come for them all?

Will the tears be for herself, of what she can lose, or will her tears be for him?

Because she loves him?

 _So young_ , she remembers a northern lord grumbled after one of their council meeting. _To be burdened by the mistakes of others_.

 _He does not deserve another war_ , Sansa reminds herself. _Not when he has already sacrificed his life for one_.

So, she does not answer and looks away from the queen instead.

But she is relentless.

“He barely speaks of you.”

Sansa grips her skirt tightly, staring at her whitened knuckles.

“I do not know of who you mean.” she responds.

She stands then, the dragon queen, and climbs down from the dais and sits instead on the bench opposite from hers.

“Jon.” the queen continues. “He never mentioned you when we were in Dragonstone.”

“I do not see any reason why he has to.”

“Or at least, he never mentioned you whenever I’m around.”

“Your grace—“

“ _I am not blind,_ Lady Sansa _._ ” the queen cuts her off. And then faintly, “ _He’s kept you from me_.”

Sansa steals a glance at the queen then. But while she prepares herself to see another scathing look, she’s surprised to see her staring down on the stone floor with a small, confused frown on her face.

“I wondered why he has so easily bent the knee after the mission from Eastwatch when he had so adamantly refused to do so before that.” the queen starts to explain. “It surprised me. Was it because I saved them? Was it because I was finally convinced about the dead? Or was it because I was also able to finally prove myself to him—this Northern lord with a permanent scowl on his face?”

The queen laughs lightly.

Sansa cannot deny the certain fondness too in those melodies. She Iooks away.

“I thought I have finally convinced him of my true and sincere intentions, of what I want for the seven kingdoms. But then…”

Sansa feels her lilac eyes drilling her but the queen's thoughts never makes it out. She only continues after a little while, speaking of a different thing entirely.

“I arrive at the North only to feel a different kind of wrath and _jealousy._ I have never experienced such in my lifetime of battles… Only to see the Northern men sneer at me, the Vale lords to smile at me almost in mockery, and then just tonight, for another Great Lord to swear fealty to another house.”

She sighs, then stands and paces.

“The Martells and the Tyrells were never loyal, not truly. They campaigned for me so they could take revenge on Cersei Lannister. I never felt the assurance that once I get the Throne, they would not try to usurp me, the _foreign_ queen. The death of their Houses is a great loss to the realm but I never truly felt sorry for it, only for the armies and the gold I could have still used for battle. So, when Jon Snow came down to Dragonstone and talked about armies of the dead and of stubborn Northern loyalty, he became such a nice change, so different from all the disaster and the failures my alliances have left me to deal with.

“I admire him, truly. For what he fights for, for this cause that is so much bigger than ourselves. I admire his passion, his courage, his bravery, his endurance, his wit… and then I ask myself, is that how much this man loves the North? The North that has mocked him his entire life for being their liege lord’s bastard?”

The queen stops in her tracks and glances at her.

“Tell me, Lady Sansa, where does your brother find that kindness in him? That kind of love? That kind that still enables him to fight deeply for it?”

 _From Ned Stark_ , she wants to reply. But she indulges the queen.

 _“Has he?”_ Sansa cannot stop herself truthfully and bitterly even then. “He gave _you_ the North.”

The dragon queen frowns. “Truly? Because the way I see it, the North is never his to give away. Do you think me foolish enough not to see it? Both he and Lord Tyrion have warned me that no Northerner and those loyal to its seat will ever bow down to a Targaryen again. So you have to forgive me, my lady, for my slight wonder and curiosity at how easily and foolishly can Jon Snow give it all away when I have already stopped asking him for it? Would you know, Lady Sansa, why he’d done it? So quickly, so confidently? Surely _, you_ must know.”

The question confuses Sansa for she _doesn’t_ know. She can only stare at the piercing gaze of the dragon queen, of her simmering fury, of the quiet madness within.

 _No, I don’t know_ , she wants to scream.

Then with her silence, the queen finally recedes. “ _It’s because of you_.”

Sansa feels the trickle of shock running down her spine—of that certain odd relief, of that certain confusion hearing the words from the queen herself, of that certain euphoria and joy that makes her want to weep because all of it, all his doing, is because of her? A part of Sansa does not want to believe it, mayhap it’s only the white lies of the queen to make them like each other, to make them stop playing the game. But the queen sits back down on the bench with a vulnerability Sansa has never seen in her before, as if she has finally peeled off her mask and her armor, revealing someone, something finally so human, someone, like her, who is also tired from the chaos of their world.

“He knew of the loyalty of your people.” Sansa could barely hear the queen now. “He knew they would only serve you, if not him. _He knew_.”

She stares at Sansa so softly as if she too is discovering these all with her. “So, he offered me something I could hold on to before I see _you_. Before I see this truth. He offered me words I was desperate to hear. Praises and admiration. He offered me something I could have from him instead because he knew I cannot conquer the North. _Not truly_.”

“Did Jon,” Sansa mumbles. “Did Jon tell you all of these?”

“My lady,” the dragon queen timidly smiles. “Do you really think he has to?”

 _No_ , Sansa realizes. The faces of her northern lords, of Lyanna Mormont, of the Vale lords, of Brienne, of Jaime Lannister, of even Arya and Bran, flash in her head. _No, he doesn’t have to_.

“It is cruel,” the queen mutters. “But if shielding me from the truth and only to have me here to fight for the greater good, then that was very smart of him. It is cruel but it is a lesson learned. Only, it does not make it any better. It does not make me feel any better. It makes me want to _hate you_.”

“Your grace…”

“As long as you live, Lady Sansa, you’re just going to be another hindrance to _my_ own purpose. Another lady bound to divide the kingdoms. As long as you live, I know the North can never be mine.”

And then she adds faintly, so foreign too coming from the lips of a woman Sansa has initially come to easily despise. “As long as you live, I also know that _he_ could never be mine.”

It is another truth Sansa has kept hidden in her heart for so long that the swift way it slides out from the dragon queen renders her shaken for she has never fathomed how potent it can truly be, this feeling, _this yearning_ for Jon, that despite her cautious safeguarding, of using courtesy as her own shield, of using her anger and disappointment to make up to the softness and the weakness of her heart, it could never truly and definitely be buried underneath it all. So she asks then for the repercussions of all these truths, diving immediately to the only outcome this would all entail.

“Would you finally burn me, _your grace?_ ”

The queen studies her before looking away again, back to the stone floors.

“I wish I could.” she accedes. “But no, I won’t.”

 _Because of him_ , Sansa reflects. _Because you love him_. _If you burn me, he’d hate you. Then you can never have him_.

“Because that won’t be deserved.” but the queen explains. “I’d rather lose to someone worthy than to kill her because of some jealousy. We, women, are stronger than any sins of men.”

“ _We are_.”

“But the politics, of course, is another story, don’t you think? When the dawn comes, that is another endeavor to face.”

Sansa grimaces at first but offers a smile anyway for it is true.

“I never knew it could be so lovely to see such devotion, even only as a spectator.” the queen confesses after. “It should make me angry, for I truly am. But I do not have it in my heart to be so anymore. They say the gods toss a coin whenever a Targaryen is born to determine if the babe is destined for greatness or madness.”

“I presume the coin has fallen on its face to predict your greatness?”

The queen quirks an eyebrow. “Or that I am simply mad for letting this is all happen right under my nose and not do anything about it.”

“ _Perhaps_.”

“I only wished for home,” the other woman sighs, “But I was already in the middle of everything before I realized how complicated it got.”

“But you _are._ ” Sansa says gently, kindly. “You’re here in Westeros.”

The dragon queen looks away to the darkening aisle of the Great Hall, melancholic; as if traversing the narrow path only to let herself reach and take sight of a certain somewhere beyond the coldness of Winterfell. Was she imagining King’s Landing? Somewhere where it is hot and warm? Where lemon trees grow?

When the moment is disturbed merely by the crackling fire, the queen finally dares whisper.

“But this is not my home.” she smiles again at Sansa then looks at the gray walls of the hall. “ _Not really_.”

“This would all be over soon,” Sansa offers kindly again. “I hope.”

Another bout of silence occupies the room. Whatever is left to be said has not found itself yet in the consciousness of their thoughts. Politics, can be discussed later. Sansa wonders now how strange they must look to anyone who dare peek inside the hall. With her red hair and the queen’s pale ones, her gray Stark gown and then her white fur coat; the blazing hearth in between them and the howling winter winds that surround the keep.

Molding and melding; fighting and resisting.

Contrasting.

But both queens in their own rights.

“I do not want to fight you, Lady Sansa.”

“ _Nor I_.”

“Then,” she nods in agreement. “That is enough for now.”

The queen takes a deep breath before finally standing up. She is already in the middle of the aisle when Sansa once again speaks up, the curiosity eating her alive.

“What do you want then, _Daenerys?_ Truly? If the dawn comes and you realize you can’t have it all, what would you want to take?”

Sansa could only dare now but the silver-haired woman does not even seem to care for her lack of title. She only turns slightly for a quiet, stoic glance before answering:

“I want them to know that I am not my father.”

Then, she gives Sansa a final nod before leaving the hall.

 

 

 

 _ix_.

 

He does not know what compels him to come into her rooms—her old rooms where there is nothing that reminds him of her. It was modest, in truth, not at all like her real chambers where every nook and cranny convey what she truly is now.

A lady. A woman. A Queen.

Sansa.

His Sansa.

 _They should have named her queen_ , Jon thinks desperately. That was what he was hoping for the moment the news of his betrayal spread in the northern kingdom. That the lords will take it upon themselves to declare her the Queen in the North but Sansa, his kind, smart, intelligent Sansa just has to be one step ahead of him, one step always to protect his claim, his seat, his leadership.

So instead, he faced the bitter northern men with a foreign woman, army, and creatures in tow.

But that bitterness, as he ponders now, seem so farcical with the truth of Bran’s words. The now familiar agony runs through his veins again and the ache threatens to return to his chest. Jon pushes this all aside. He did not come here to unload his pain—only, he realizes now, he came here simply because he does not know where else to go.

_There is nowhere else but her._

He stands and walks to the heat of the fire on the hearth but the chamber door opens before he could cross the room.

“Jon?”

He turns and finds Sansa in the entry way. Quietly, she moves to close the door.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you.” he says hoarsely, looking down to his boots, suddenly feeling idiotic and embarrassed for truly, it is so late in the night.

“That—that’s alright.”

He hears her cross the room then past him.

“Have you had your supper?” she asks, hanging her cloak on the arm chair. She turns to look at him again. “I can ask—“

But Jon shakes his head, stealing a glance at her. “No, I’m… I’m not hungry.”

“Alright.”

Then he dares to really look at her, to have his fill. For it has been days since he returned and this is the first time he has had a moment alone with her. His gaze might have overwhelmed Sansa for she looks down now too, intertwining her hands in front of her, as if uncertain, as if Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark’s ghosts are displayed in between the two of them.

“I’ve heard the dragon queen spoke to you.” he starts. “How was it? Was she harsh? Was she unfair? Sansa, you have to tell me _immediately_ —“

But she only cuts him off as she strides the room quickly and holds him in an embrace. It is bizarre, this sudden intimacy with Sansa knowing what they face outside her chamber. But despite this, Jon cannot even comprehend on how long they’ve stayed intertwined but he’s still swimming in the pleasantness of her scent—of lemon and lavender—that he barely realizes she has already slightly pulled away. His arms remain solid on her waist.

“It does not matter.” she whispers, looking at him with such softness as she caresses his cheek. “Nothing should matter. Not after everything. _Not tonight_.”

Jon takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, basking in the feeling of her hand. He moves his head only to deepen her hold. Truly, he had missed this. He had missed her. And if only he could have been far more eloquent, he had already expressed the words he’s for so long kept hidden; if only he could say it in the way she deserves to hear it.

“Sansa,” he murmurs as he opens his eyes to hers again. “There’s still so much I need to tell you.”

“ _I know_.”

Because for all that he has endured, this one other thought has also plagued his mind the moment she left Bran’s room that morning. The way his gaze followed her retreating figure just as she turned away, just as Arya slumped back onto the bed, just as Bran turned to look at him with his knowing eyes, uttering the word that had shifted his life then and there again, two times over.

The truth, both painful and surreal, both hopeless and hopeful.

Both tragic and joyous.

The word. Bran’s word. It now playfully assembles itself in his mind, on his lips. Forming and shaping seamlessly, flawlessly, he only needs to ease a breath to finally utter it.

 _Cousins_.

Jon basks in the wonder again.

Not sister but cousin.

His need for Sansa magnifies and amplifies, confirming the downright and complete difference from how he needs Arya and Bran by his side.

The relief and the joy overwhelm Jon in this moment that he feels his knees almost buckle. He holds Sansa tighter, lifting his own hand to capture her cheek.

 _I could love you_ , he wants her to know. _I could love you fully_. _Without guilt. Without shame. I could love you now_.

A dragon screeches outside. A wolf howls.

 _But nothing matters tonight_.

He also barely hears Sansa whisper his name before he silences her with his lips.

Softly. Desperately. Urgently.

 _I’ve lost. And I’ve won_.

 

 

_ x. _

 

 

On her bed, with the sunrise sneaking past the small cracks of the wooden window, Jon feels as if renewed, a disposition each morning should gift to the weary. To the broken. And peculiarly, he feels his lips turn upward to form a smile he has forgotten how to do that it jars him now for it sincerely paints itself up on his face again.

Looking down, Sansa’s figure is nothing but cocooned into him, their clothes rumpled underneath the thick fur; both still blissfully unaware of a raven landing in the maester’s rookery, delivering the most devastating news; of ice that shattered, of more men lost, of the dead coming for the living.

Instead, Jon runs his hand through her hair. He kisses her temple and then whispers, “ _It’s morning, my love._ ”

 

* * *

 


	3. Separation & Doubts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For despite the randomness of the situation and the randomness of the person who has asked him of this truth, Jon knows now that he can never, in any circumstance or judgement, deny his feelings for Sansa any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to cut the last chapter into two considering that these parts alone are already 5k+ in words and it might be a drag to read it in full! Next one will definitely include more action as this chapter answers mostly some other issues. As usual, expect some minor edits in the next days in case of any errors. :)

_ xi _ _._

 

The smooth feel of the silk in his hand does not belong here, Jon decides.

As well as the memories that flood his mind as he keeps hold of the thin material; for the silk reminds him only of the sweet kind of comfort that floats and fights its way around the dark snowy cliffs. Directionless—swirling around and just weightless—as if only to envelope him with the faintest traces of her memories, her touch, her scent, the vision of her red hair.

Jon holds the favor tightly as another gush of cold wind brushes past, threatening to distinguish the small bonfire. Behind him, he hears the tent flap noisily.

It is almost the time of the wolf, the moon high up above, barely even visible behind the cloudy skies, and yet, he finds no sleep.

They’ve seen the ice dragon yesterday, also barely escaping its wrath and of the first wave of the Night King’s army with luck to only take credit when they were able to get away. The Gift is vast enough to give a wide berth from where they’ve attacked the enemy but it is flat and open, disabling the Northern army and those pledged to their cause the advantage of hills and mountains that could act as their initial defensive shield.

Brothers from the Watch now traverse the northwest, as Edd’s last letter states. Eastwatch has crumbled and with them on the journey to Winterfell are those that almost perished too at the onslaught of the Night King—Tormund and some wildlings, Beric Dondarrion and his men.

 _The battle is lost. The dead has come_.

But Jon does not want to believe it. Jon does not want to think that it is over for even while around him the certain hopelessness devours the camp wholly, he knows he cannot stop fighting. Not now when his lost purpose is once again glaring so brightly at him—in the forms and figures of his siblings, in the lovely face of Sansa who is waiting for him back in Winterfell. Jon does not know if he can ever find the will to stop now.

The crunch of boots on snow disrupts his thoughts.

“May I, your grace?”

Jon looks up to the tall figure of the Kingslayer, clad in black and brown leather and cloak and with no trace of any Lannister colors except for his golden hand and golden hair. Jon studies him carefully, knowing fully that on the night he arrived at Winterfell, his first request was to see Sansa and then his first act was to swear as her shield. He could not comprehend why the Kingslayer was here in the far North rather than in Winterfell but Jon can only guess that Sansa would rather he—Jon—is armed with all the men who can fight with him on the Wall rather than let those qualified simply stand guard outside her chambers.

Jaime quirks an eyebrow at his now lengthy stare so Jon finally nods, despite his quiet hesitations.  

The golden-haired knight sits on the nearby boulder and offers a leather flask of ale but Jon shakes his head and refuses, deciding that he needs his head clear if all of his men are getting warm—and drunk—on this night. They’re both quiet with only the continuous bellowing of the wind and the hurried crackles of the fire. Jamie sips on his flask once in a while.

The night has not compelled him to, for it should bother on far greater and more threatening thoughts, but Jon can’t help but feel the slight irony of the situation.

Jamie Lannister was once the arrogant Kingsguard who has mocked him in the courtyard of Winterfell all those years ago, japing at his desire to serve the Night’s Watch. But then here, in the middle of the frozen flat lands, both cold and hungry and tired, with no titles and thrones to save their pride, he merely becomes the silhouette of a disgraced and fallen golden boy of the South, fighting alongside the most rugged of men against enemies Tywin Lannister could not and would not even dream of fighting and winning against.

 _He serves me now_ , Jon thinks. _Pledging his allegiance to my cause._

His presence amongst the Northernmen is still a discerning reality despite the doomed situation. But Jaime’s desperation is oozing and palpable. His only hope for redemption is this pledge to fight against the dead.

 _Honor_ , Jon realizes once again, _can make a man move mountains if he so chooses to do so, in its name_.

Jon glances at the Kingslayer who pensively stares at the fire.

 _He chose to serve the North_ , the words flood his mind easily, peculiarly feeling like some sort of a betrayal.

 _He chose to serve Sansa_. _If I perish here, she’d still have him_. _They could run South if all else fails_. _He could deliver Sansa to safety in the Riverlands_. _She would be safer with him_.

Then worse, _He could do for her what I cannot_.

At this moment, where his certain weakness takes over, even that thought of Sansa in the far South and away from the cold is not comforting. His selfishness and idiocy only overpowers any other logical thought. It only prods and awaken a darkness in him that wants to sate this certain and intense jealousy in the idea of the Kingslayer fulfilling the image of dawn over at Winterfell, suddenly obliterating any other need to firstly ensure the safety of the woman he loves.

Then, the sour memory of Alliser Thorne right before Jon submits him to his death flashes in his mind, like an old wound—or a curse.

 _You would be fighting their battles forever_.

Instantly, Jon feels that any which way, he is never going to win in any of it. 

“Have you always been this broody?”

Jon squints as he hears the words. The certain irritation bubbles in his chest and finds the blonde man frowning curiously at him.

“I mean, really?” Jamie continues in a lighter, teasing voice. “I’ve seen that look on you all those years ago in Winterfell and to find you still looking exactly like that boy, it’s unnerving to be quite honest with you.”

Jon grimaces and shakes his head. “The way I look—or my disposition, for that matter—is not something that greatly concerns me.”

“Not the way it concerns the Queen, I’m sure.”

“The Dragon Queen can—“

“I’m talking about Sansa, of course.” Jaime cuts him off and raises an eyebrow. “ _Your_ Queen in the North?”

Surprised, Jon stares at the Kingslayer.

“ _That_ is her favor you are holding, is it not?” he points to the silky cloth Jon is indeed _still_ grasping in his hand. “Gray and silvery… with a direwolf emblem on the corner? It surely can’t be the Dragon Queen’s.”

“And it surely is none of your business, Ser.”

Jaime laughs loudly against the wind. “Of course, it’s not. But if only I have not seen Sansa work tirelessly day and night for it, hoping to be able to finish before we leave Winterfell, then I would not even take a second glance at _you_ now.”

The Kingslayer sighs at his silence and then appraises him like he is the biggest idiot in the world.

“Why do you think she sent me here, Jon Snow, if not to look after you? Why do you think she did not allow Brienne of Tarth, a splendid warrior, to fight with us here if not to look after your sister Arya and your brother, Bran? She worries over the lot of you more than I’ve seen Cersei worry about the throne.”

Jaime shakes his head and takes a swig of his ale. Solemnly, he confesses. “I live my life now not only to fight against the dead but mostly, I do it for your sister. I do it as her sworn shield.”

 _As your last hope for honor_ , the words rivet again in Jon’s mind.

“I will not force you to believe me or even like me, Snow, as I think you’d rather face the Night King than trust me.”

Jon huffs his agreement.

“But you and I, in time past,” Jaime continues as if unhearing of Jon’s irritation. “We also did not think of these wights as something real. But here we are, both waiting for our deaths from their rotting hands.”

“We do not need to die fighting the Night King and his army.” Jon declares. “I intend to destroy them once and for all.”

 _For Sansa_. _For the Stark name_.

“Then we are not so much different, _your grace_.” Jaime nods. “I, too, do intend to return to the safety of your sister in one piece.”

A nerve jumps, his finger twitches, and when Jon stares back at the Kingslayer where the low fire barely lights up his features, he can barely notice the light squint on the knight’s expression—more so, he cannot decipher and see the curiosity in it nor the challenge that awaits to be proven.

Only, the _truth_ has yet to be divulged for in this moment of crises, estranging the Dragon Queen and her armies with his parentage is not the way to win the war. So in this scenario where judgement is another thing Jon fears most, he cannot exactly embody and exercise yet the nature of who he truly is in Sansa’s life the instant chambers doors have closed and fires have been extinguished.

So begrudgingly, Jon draws another point from the Kingslayer’s statement instead.

“Stop calling me _‘your grace’_.” he excuses. “I’m no King.”

“Then tell Sansa to ask me to stop calling you that. You are her King, as she so used to remind me daily when you irritate me at council.”

“I’m no King if she is queen—and she _is_ Queen.”

“Then don’t you want to be _her_ King?”

Jon takes a sharp glance at the relentless bouts.

The earlier teasing tone of Jaime’s voice is no longer there albeit the arrogance emanates still quite fully from those wide, knowing green eyes that appear to exactly see right through him. Irritated, Jon feels that Jaime is on a mission to make him admit this one other certain truth that glares even on this dark night; the one in the form of a gray favor he now safely tucks inside his pocket as if it is under threat.

Jon wonders, how long did it take for him to comprehend it all? Was it during those nights after council meetings and he—Jon—insists on leading Sansa back to her chambers? Was it because of those moments he’d uninterestedly pass him by while standing guard at the godswood, almost desperate in his pace, just so he could quickly reach Sansa as she prays at the Heart Tree?

Were it those nights? Those days, those careless glances as she walks the courtyard, the halls? While he sits on the dais and she on the low tables?

For plainly and obviously, Jaime Lannister has already seen exactly a circumstance he knows too well.

But his slight insistence unnerves Jon. Does the Kingslayer see him as threat to Sansa’s rule? Or does he see Jon as a threat to _his_ own intentions?

Jon’s blood boils just at the thought.

A lion and a wolf.

A Stark and a Lannister.

“I can take your disrespect for me, Ser,” he speaks finally, trying his might to keep his voice from shaking and from strangling the knight from his seat. The image of Sansa in the arms of another Lannister swallows Jon fully and he does not want to spend the night with this kind of torment. The wind bellows even harsher as if to reflect his anger. “But you dare to question my loyalty to Sansa—”

But Jaime disregards him instantly like he is some child.

“You think I do not presume you loyal to Sansa?” the knight exclaims in disbelief. “Then, my boy, you are more foolish than I think you are.”

“Aye, I am foolish!” Jon retaliates. “For even acknowledging this conversation with you!”

But Jamie only laughs and shakes his head, turning away and gazing into the darkened night of the frozen flatlands.

“Sansa has warned me about your temper. You easily sway and act rashly upon what your _feelings_ tell you so. Now, I see what she finally means.” Jaime drinks from his flask. And then after another contemplative and empathetic glance, “But like I said, _we’re not so much different_ , your grace.”

There it is again. 

Jon tries not to let the words of the man both revered and dishonored, saved merely by the legacy of his manipulative and appalling family name, get to him. And yet even in that thought and aspect, where Jon for a moment sees himself finally greater than _the_ Jaime Lannister—who once upon a time served a king, killed a king, and infamously bedded and loved and cared for his own twin sister—he still realizes grimly that they are indeed (and the truth penetrates deeply he feels some physical pain in it), in the eyes of the realm, not so much different after all.

A bastard. A traitor. A king who sold the North.

A boy who loved his sister.

“There’s no point in fearing anymore, Snow.” Jaime voices as he stares up above the dark clouds. “When death is imminent, when death is a few days—a few minutes from now—will you not be able to find the courage to declare your love for Sansa Stark? Your _real_ love for her, the way a man truly loves a woman?”

Then quirking an eyebrow at him, Jaime releases another. “Tell me, Jon. Would you let death take that chance away from you?”

The blow to his chest this time is harder to take for whatever judgment he holds for the Kingslayer cannot, or will it ever, cover up the truth in what he just uttered for simply and truly, _there is not much time_. And then instantly, Jon feels the probability of seeing Sansa once again becomes slimmer; it suddenly feels impossible to go back home to her.

Jon fists his hands, restraining himself again despite his screaming and protesting muscles to finally lunge at Jaime for his sudden and very uncalled for reasoning. This panic he’s planting on Jon’s mind is unnecessary in this already cold and desperate night. But just the realization that Jaime Lannister _knows_ the truth—about his feelings, about his fears—weighs Jon down and petrifies him. The ache and the longing he feels for Sansa, the immense gravity of it right in this instant where it hangs completely and carelessly now over his and the Kingslayer’s head, compels Jon to acknowledge it finally.

 _Fully_.

For despite the randomness of the situation and the randomness of the person who has asked him of this truth, Jon knows now that he can never, in any circumstance or judgement, deny his feelings for Sansa any longer.

“You haven’t spoken.” he hears a faint snigger beside him. “It only means I’ve singled out the truth _. You do love her_.”

Something inside Jon lightens and releases like a sigh, a resignation that indeed Jaime has caught him red handed; as if he has been waiting for this heaviness, this puzzle, to be lifted and to be answered, as if he has been longing for someone to notice, for someone to finally urge him say it because this secret, this overwhelming feeling he has for Sansa that consumes day and night, does not deserve to be hidden and spoken of just like some afterthought. It’s not something he wants to keep for himself anymore, not when nothing else should matter but her and of how he longs to come back to her arms.

So while odd that Jaime Lannister need be the first to hear of this confession apart from Sansa, Jon still states simply and determinedly for there is nothing else that should matter except for this.

“Aye. _I do love her_. In ways, perhaps, I should not.”

Greatly, wholly, almost sinfully.

But how easy was it to say it finally? How fittingly and how uninhibited it makes him feel? The declaration flows through his every nerve ending then into the winds, echoing and finding its way back to Winterfell like a charging wolf unafraid of any aftermath or repercussion; of how this wolf threatens to overpower creatures that breathe fire. But saying it out loud only makes it even more powerful, makes it even more real.

He loves her.

And the Old Gods help those who’ll make him say it back.

“ _Good_.” Jamie only replies. “I was afraid that you did not. And all that she’s worked hard for—sacrificed for—for you, is all just for naught.”

“You seem to know Sansa well.” Jon cannot help but to bitterly ask, slightly feeling like a child again for the certain jealousy in knowing that Jaime holds Sansa in high regard, as if he _admires_ her, creeps up again.

“No, I don’t.” Jaime shakes his head. “But only a fool would be able to deny what she’s done. And I am no Northern fool. I see the way she looks at you— _and you at her_.”

He then offers his flask and raises an eyebrow. “And they say the Lannisters are the only wicked ones.”

 _But we are not wicked ones_ , Jon so desperately wants to argue as he accepts the flask. _We will never be like you or Cersei_.

If only he could say it, if only he could say it now and tell the Kingslayer of the truth about Rhaegar and Lyanna, if only he could keep Jaime Lannister from tainting his feelings for Sansa as if a sin in the world, if only he could prove to him now that there is nothing wrong in loving her, Jon would do it. He would do say it. But Sansa’s last solemn reminder back in her chambers as they bid their farewells run through his head like some chant.

 _Patience_ , he remembers. _Patience, patience._

“How easy would it be if you have fallen in love with Daenerys Targaryen instead?” Jaime then asks. “You’ll have her dragons, you’ll have her army, you can wed peacefully, lawfully… combine the North and the South—“

Jon disregards whatever else Jaime is saying for it is only another tempting opportunity to correct his words and tell him how far worse it is to marry the dragon queen; of how his parentage eliminates entirely all the advantages of a union with her for in the first place, everything that she claims is already rightfully his. But in this instance where Jon cannot entirely blame and contend further with Jaime’s reasonable case where it is based solely on the version of the truth that the realm acknowledges, deep in his heart, he knows that not even his lineage becomes his biggest argument against that scenario. For even without the Targaryen blood that flows through his veins, there’s only this one unquestionable fact that remains to him.

For simply, in whatever world or circumstance, _the dragon queen can never be Sansa Stark_.

Not in temperament, not in her silver hair, not in her jealous wrath that threatens to extinguish her kind heart.

“It does not matter,” Jon only says then. “I am willing to accept whatever and however little my situation with Sansa allows.”

_“How noble.”_

“You speak as if you’ve never lived your life the same way.”

Jaime laughs and shakes his head, looking as if thousands and thousands of regrets flash in his head in that instant. Faintly, he only says, “But no, your grace. I never lived that way.”

Jon swirls the flask. “It’s never too late.”

“Is it?” then Jaime rubs a hand over his face. “I’ve done horrible things.”

“ _I know_.” Then Jon gives back the ale without taking a sip. “But you’re here, aren’t you? You chose to leave Cersei, _the woman that you love_ , only to ally with her enemies.”

Then after, “Would you not consider that to be the noblest thing?”

Jaime turns to look at him with a new wonder on his face as if Jon barely comprehends the situation again. “I’ve never said I still loved Cersei, your grace. I did not turn north to spite her.”

“Then why do it?”

With a small smile, Jaime holds Widow’s Wail’s pommel so similar to its sister sword.

“ _I’ve found a new purpose_.”

 

 

 _xii_.

 

The darkness envelopes the keep and yet the flow of men, women, and children entering the gates of Winterfell carry on like a procession.

 _We can’t keep them all_ , Sansa fears as she continues to watch. Winterfell is starving now as it is, with some of the granaries and produce packed and wheeled with the army to go North. She cannot fathom how else they can feed the people looking for shelter. But Sansa knows they could not turn them away.

She turns her view from the window and strides her chambers to the small desk. There in the middle sits a scroll that arrived not too long ago. Sansa even thinks she could smell the salty seas in it. She takes the letter. Wax torn hastily, its roll blocking the faint words and the visible water blotches; the seal is evident, the seal was unexpected.

She reads the letter again.

… _this finds you before winter comes. I have discovered of The Golden Company sailing to Westeros in the name of Cersei Lannister_ …

 _... I would rather fight alongside you but the threat from the South lingers..._ _I need to find my sister._

_... I will come back to you and Jon soon._

Sansa clenches the parchment again and deeply sighs, fondly reading the lone signature at the bottom of the letter. No claims, no titles. Just a name.

 _Theon_.

“Do you think he’d really return?” someone says behind her.

Sansa watches as Arya enters her room and sits lazily on her bed. She doesn’t speak, only watching too as Sansa places the letter back on the desk.

“Why haven’t you returned to the Lady’s chambers?” but Arya then randomly asks. “The Targaryen Queen is gone.”

Sansa turns away and then back to the window to view the still oncoming people. Arya’s question floats in between them for it’s true, she could have retreated back to the chamber that is already rightfully hers to begin with. But while it is comforting to realize the notion of the Targaryen Queen gone from the keep, it cannot eliminate the fact that somewhere and sometime in that room, she has branded Jon to be hers.

Their quiet truce that night in the Great Hall cannot disintegrate that past scenario, even. Sansa thinks herself foolish for in a way, Daenerys has already seen and recognized her loss in that aspect of battle—that truly, Jon belongs to the North, to Sansa—and yet, the remnants of her passions with him seems palpable enough to let Sansa feel wretched in just the simple thought of going inside the Lady’s chamber and sleep on the bed where they have once—many times?—have coupled.

 She does have the strength to face it yet.

“Do you want to burn it?”

Sansa turns to Arya, now lying on the bed comfortably and staring at the canopy, looking almost lethargic.

“What?” Sansa asks absently.

 “The bed.” her little sister shrugs and then glances at her. “In the Lady’s chambers. Do you want to burn it?”

Sansa frowns for surely, she cannot mean that. Arya cannot read her thoughts exactly for while things have changed and they were not those once innocent children of Ned Stark but instead, they are daughters shaped and molded by the unfairness of their world, _Arya can’t still know that_.

But she sits up and stares at Sansa—that languid, almost visceral look she wears now—and insists.

“We could burn it. Then you can go back to the Lady’s chambers.”

“Maybe I want to stay in these chambers.”

“ _No._ ” Then slowly, Arya’s little face contorts in some form of disgust. “This is where _he_ hurt you.”

Sansa stiffens for that is another pain she keeps for herself despite almost everyone in the keep knowing this truth. When the dragon queen had settled in the Lady's chambers and Sansa has once again had to endure the pain, they all kept quiet—because that was what she did. But at this moment, she can even hear now from her memories the hounds barking and growling in the courtyard; then of his hot breath on her neck, his heavy weight on her body, his sharp knives on her skin.

She doesn’t respond only when she feels Arya standing beside her, looking out the window, does Sansa realizes she was holding her breath.

She exhales loudly.

“I can burn it for you, the bed. I know it’s mother and father’s but you and Jon are not mother and father anyway. We can have someone build a new bed, sew new furs…”

Sansa’s breath hitches as she glances down.

“ _Arya_ …”

Her sister is looking faraway to the darkened and frozen fields that surround the keep. Her expression is unfathomable but the shock of her words still seeps in on Sansa.

“Do you remember when I told you about my time in Braavos?” Arya speaks again. “About what I can do? It terrifies you, I know, and I am sorry. But you’ve already seen my work, didn’t you? All those faces under my bed?”

“You don’t need to explain any more than you already have, Arya. We can deal with our pain the way we know—“

“No, _no_.” Arya shakes her head and looks at her. “You misunderstand me, Sansa. Wearing their faces is only just one of the things I had to learn. Because even before I could even get to do that, I have to master the first step in the process.”

Sansa shudders even now, at hearing again of Arya’s time with the Faceless Men, of this _process_. It almost seems surreal despite their situation, despite the existence of dragons and undead mean. Surreal simply because it is Arya who dwells in the act. It is Arya, her sister Arya, who becomes the mystery herself.

“The first step,” Arya turns away again, almost nonchalant to Sansa’s obvious struggle, and stares back to view the courtyard. “… is to _observe_.”

Sansa takes a deep breath and closes her eyes upon hearing the word, feeling its weight rest on her shoulders for surely, Arya uttered it so purposefully. They don’t speak for a while, as if letting the word simmer, letting it make sense of all the other unexplainable things that has happened since Jon returned from the South—since Jon stood dead center in this very chamber on that fateful night and waited for her; since he lovingly kissed her—and as she kissed him back just as much.

“I see you,” Arya whispers then. Her back straight, her hands resting on the window pane, her eyes still glued to the vast, blank darkness. “I see you— _and I see him_.”

Then she turns to look at Sansa. And while Sansa expects an expression angry and disappointed, disgusted and appalled, when Arya faces her, Sansa can only see her gray eyes blank and confused.

“I thought I knew things.” Arya mutters. “I thought I’ve seen _worse_ things.”

Sansa’s chest heaves.

“But this… whatever _this is_ with you and Jon.” she shakes her head. “…I do not understand it.”

Sansa feels her lips tremble and the tears threaten to roll from her eyes. The pain is familiar but it is nevertheless still sharp and unyielding.

“I thought you hated him,” Arya continues. “Then to see you now so tender, so caring… and to see him react the same way… it makes me feel… betrayed.”

“Arya,”

“Have you both forgotten about me, Sansa?”

“Arya, no—!”

“Or Bran?”

“Please stop, _Arya_ —”

“What do you think Robb would say?”

Sansa shakes and sobs. She leans unto the window and receives Arya’s words agonizingly, blow by blow, like some arrow; like a whip that slashes through her skin.

“And mother, Sansa!” Arya now shouts, “What would she say? How would Catelyn Stark fathom the thought of her precious, darling Sansa in the arms of Jon Snow—“

“ _That’s enough, Arya._ ”

A solemn voice interrupts Arya’s tirade. Sansa turns to see Bran by the door, wheeled by Brienne who is looking down, unable to meet any of the Stark children’s gaze.

Has she heard everything?

Sansa feels shame building inside her chest for while she and Jon can be unbothered to their selfishness against Daenerys, were they too careless to have not even considered how their siblings would feel? It is difficult to comprehend, the complexity of this scenario where she and Jon are able to see and care for Arya and Bran in that same familial manner and yet see each other in an entirely different way.

Have the horrors of the past consumed only to spit them back to become the monsters they are now?

“Just tell me,” Arya almost pleads, her voice shaking. “Tell me how did this happen? _Tell me how!_ ”

Sansa feels another tear roll down her cheek and shakes her head.

“I don’t know.” she faintly whispers. “I don’t know, Arya.”

“ _You don’t know?_ ”

“No, I don’t!” Sansa retaliates. But then she cowers, feeling weak for there is no other explanation only that it happened; that it is happening. “ _I don’t know_ … I don’t know why I feel this way the same way I don’t know why father had to die. Why Robb, why mother, why Rickon. Do you not think I do not wonder? When perhaps, it should have been me below the grave. It should have been me dead long ago.

“ _But I am here_ ,” she shudders. “ _And_ s _o is Jon_ —and maybe this is the work of the gods to further torment me or punish me but it is right here, consuming me day and night for I do, Arya. _I love him_.”

Arya grimaces but Sansa lets on, unable now to stop.

“Do you not think that Jon and I did not struggle with our demons long before we knew of the _truth_? Do you not think we didn’t see this as wrong and terrifying? Because we did. We both tried to get away but where else is there to go? _Who else is there?_ In all those moments that I deny Jon, I knew I was only lying to myself.

“For so long, I believed this simply must be the consequences of my mistakes when we were younger. To finally love a man truly but only, he is kin— _your brother still_. In the darkest of days, I even feel as if it is the filth of Ramsey Bolton that has grown in me that made me this way; that maybe this is all because I do not anymore deserve any great form of love, not in the rightful ways it should have grown. Only it has to be twisted, that it has to be revolting to most.

“But Arya,” Sansa now asks despairingly. “ _Is it truly wrong to love Jon?_ Do I truly not deserve him? In this world where we’ve dealt with so much and gained almost nothing at all, can I not have this one reprieve to freely love him now that he is _not_ my brother?

“He is good and he is kind. He is all those that I remember dreaming about when we were little girls. I know we are not those people anymore and how foolish of me to even think it possible. But it is also exactly in those reasons that I find strength in truthfully voicing what I feel for him for _we are not those children anymore_. It breaks my heart to know that this displeases you but I will not argue.  You are my sister and I love you and I will not lie to you. But I want you to know that there is no longer a path where I see Jon the way that you see him. You can tell me that I should not proclaim this to the world but I beg you not to tell me to stop loving him for I cannot bear it.

“Arya,” Sansa now moves closer, her tears blinding but she wills herself to say it, this one last salvation. “Arya, _I will not survive it_.”

But Arya only stares at her, unblinking as if in a trance, as if she is unseeing her.

_Does she hate me? Can she truly hate me because of this?_

The silence consumes the room and Sansa more than anything else just wants to have Arya in her arms and assure her, beg her forgiveness, her approval—anything and everything if only to stop her from looking at her as if she is a stranger.

Sansa takes another step but Arya moves away.

“I need to go,” she whispers hurriedly, taking her glance away from Sansa then strides the room and out to the hallway, passing by the stoic figures of Bran and Brienne.

“Let her,” says Bran. “Running away is her only method to cope.”

But Sansa is looking now too at her honorable knight, realizing finally of all the secrets she has divulged for her ears to hear. Sansa knows Arya can take it, but Brienne, noble Brienne. What does she think now?

“My lady,” Sansa murmurs. But the knight cuts her off.

“My duty is to protect you and your siblings, Sansa.” Brienne explains, standing taller, as if truly unbothered. “Whatever I have learned in this room shall stay with me to the grave.”

Sansa nods and offers a small, appreciative smile. She knows this is far from over and that soon, Brienne would have her own questions. But the only other person that truly matters in this moment of revelation remains seated stoically in his chair. She turns to him then, to the young boy she so desperately still tries to think of as the young child who once loved to climb walls and towers. Sansa knows that person is now long gone, like her own old self. But a moment of pretend would not hurt her any more than the rest of the world had already done so.

So, she imagines him the way she fondly remembers that little boy.

“And you, Bran?” Sansa whispers then softly, timidly. “Do you hate me too?”

He is passive, with barely a shift on his feature to reveal what he truly feels; not on his brows, or lips, or his eyes that seem thousands of years older than he truly is.

“No,” he croaks. “I do not hate you, Sansa.”

The relief does not come.

But for now, Sansa hopes Bran’s words would be enough.

 

* * *

 


	4. Long Nights & Sweet Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa smiles at that, finally. And the hall erupts with nothing but the sound of their voices, shrill and loud, but joyous. Winterfell has never heard of laughter in so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, the finale is here. I hope you enjoy! Again, thank you so much for your wonderful thoughts in this accidental multi-chapter fic! I've enjoyed writing this so much and I hope you'd like this last chapter too! As usual, will be doing full proofing soon so expect minor changes and updates for any errors. 
> 
> P.S.: Cheers to all of you that rice dramatically! *wink*

_xiii_.

 

The attack was instant. The attack was unexpected.

The smoke surrounds the flat lands of The Gift.

And the fire.

 _Fire is everywhere_.

The chaos dislodges Tyrion from his hold on the reigns of his horse and he now takes cover behind a cart of food supplies. Soldiers run past him, barely recognizing and seeing his figure, shaking with shock and fear for he has never been in the middle of battle before, not in the way that he is now; not even during the Battle of Blackwater Bay nor during the attack at Highgarden. War and the stench of death it brings are some things Tyrion only thought he’d see from a far, like some ominous god; placed at the high seat so he can play with the chess pieces but not really become the piece himself. He does not know sword fighting, he does not even know how to properly hold a shield.

 _I’m going to die here_ , he realizes. And the only thing he hates in that thought, as more panic consumes the already shambled state of the army, nobody would even get to witness how.

A stray arrow to the chest? A bite, an ice spear from the dead? A swing of some sword?

Tyrion covers as another shot of fire landed near him.

Above, Daenerys and Drogon charges the ice dragon and Tyrion can only imagine the painful irony of it. The Dragon Queen has not spoken rashly about the transformation nor did she succumb to a certain anger. But her slight indifference to it only makes the image even more unnerving. It was a shock, the first time they’ve seen Viserion in this deadened, malicious form and it should have rattled and addled his brain for how else could they defeat the enemies if the enemies possess the same weapons they do?

Only, Jon Snow did not seem surprised at all.

 _He knew_ , Tyrion remembers thinking then, watching as the bastard did not even give a blink as Viserion flew past. _He knew this would happen_.

And then while it surprised Tyrion that Jon Snow had seem to expect something of this sort from the Night King, it only meant that, possibly, he came in prepared for this kind of battle and weaponry.

 _Whatever is up on your sleeves, Snow,_ Tyrion thinks as he searches for the bastard among the pandemonium. _This is the best time to do it_.

Tyrion spots Jon in the middle of the fighting. Unstoppable, a certain rage emanating and radiating from him that no wight can survive.

But the vision is still dark. Jon stands and fights against the hundreds. His armies and men scatter to the fields.

Tyrion feels a certain urge to run and find some sword and protect the King in The North. This vulnerability does not suit him, this bastard of Winterfell. And after that certain conversation at the godswood in where Tyrion, while shaken at his realization because the Starks were always virtuous and honorable and Sansa so sweet and innocent, he also realizes now the enormity, the gravity, and the worth of this young man—and even without the crown on his head.

 _If Jon dies here and I live, Sansa would kill me_.

If all else mayhap he’d save Jon Snow for Sansa, for all the suffering she’s been through; that she deserves to have Jon come back home to her alive. Mayhap, he’d do this even for Eddard Stark whose honor he had so quietly admired. Mayhap, he’d want to do it simply for the Stark name which without a doubt, remains to be the only name that will matter to the people once this is all over.

The Tyrells are gone. The Martells are gone. The Baratheons are gone.

But the wolf remains.

The people won’t trust the Lannisters nor the Greyjoys, the Tullys are too weak, and the other piercing truth echoes in his mind as perhaps—and he knows for a while now—the Targaryen name is another name they won’t allow to reign again.

Despite the chaos, the moment renders Tyrion to feel alarmed for it is a fact he has kept on denying, in the many times Daenerys had asked him of his loyalty. It is a fact he’d never let his mind think of and ponder over. He knows it’s his pride, he knows it’s his supposed cleverness that stops him from uttering it and out of his lips. Because this truth pains him more than all the insults in the world for maybe, just maybe, he has ultimately chosen the _wrong_ side.

The image of Randyl and Dickon Tarly burning is still vivid in Tyrion's mind.

But in this scenario where the living stands on the same grounds, stature, and chances against the dead, will it still matter?

His loyalty? 

His politics?

Whose banners you’ve raised as you fight for your own life?

Tyrion looks to the ground then, searching for something to arm himself. He feels himself foolish for what can a half-man like him do to help Jon Snow and his Valyrian sword? But how more cowardly is it to hide behind the supplies cart all the while death continues to take and take?

 _If I die, might as well I die for something_.

He only finds a pointed rock, unfortunately, but the determination does not escape him. Somewhere, Jaime is fighting the dead too. And somewhere further, Cersei might already be marching north with The Golden Company to kill all of them too.

So truly, will it all even matter now? 

But before Tyrion could even scurry for something sturdier like a piece of Dragonglass, the sharp, cold wind whooshes past him and he sees Rhaegal flying low, almost touching the ground, his mouth opens as he breathes fire to the enemy. He circles the field, instantly killing the wights around.

Rhaegal’s attack gives Jon a moment to rest but the swarm of the dead is overwhelming still. Tyrion sees more of their dark, dismembered figures coming in waves after waves, like an avalanche, making Jon Snow look nothing more like the commander he is but a little boy in his fur, awaiting his death.

“Jon!” he shouts for him. “ _Jon, what are you doing?_ ”

But the stubborn bastard does not even turn and Tyrion can only look hopelessly for he only has a useless rock in his hand.  

 _I’ll kill him instead then_ , he irritably thinks. _I’ll kill him then I’ll kill myself after_.

At least they won’t turn. At least their bodies won’t become part of the horror of this night.

But as the dead runs faster and faster towards their clearing and when there is only a few feet of distance between them—and Tyrion is not even half-way through his thoughts on how to counterattack—he sees Jon determinedly climb the scaly wings of Rhaegal and settles on its back, pulling and directing the dragon upward. Tyrion doesn’t even know if Jon realizes what he’s done, of how he is able to do what only one woman can. But now soaring high, he rides the creature as if he had done it so many times before.

The wights do not even stand a chance the moment Rhaegal breathes fire again, calling unto Jon’s order. Tyrion moves back to the crate to avoid the heat but the awe lingers in him. He looks up to the view of Jon and Rhaegal again but frowning too at the certain wonder of it; in this disbelief for it does not make the most sense, of why Rhaegal allows some stranger, and a northerner at that, to guide him on this battle. And Jon, with his fierce and serious gaze, looks even more like Ned Stark by the minute, making the image even much more difficult to bear.

A wolf and a dragon.

Tyrion wants to pretend Jon is riding some large direwolf instead only to shake the very strange feeling dawning on him for this view, of Jon Snow riding a dragon, _does not seem right at all._

And yet, there is a certain grace he cannot deny.

A certain and yet peculiar beauty in it—its shock penetrating deeply that he cannot help but stare.

 _A wolf and a dragon_.

It’s a strange match of words and image, so impossibly difficult to take, reminiscent so much too of those stories he’s heard from long ago; of how Rhaegar Targaryen chose Lyanna Stark over his own dragon wife, of how he captured and raped her, of how his act catapulted several more painful events.

_Rickard and Brandon Stark’s demise, Robert’s rebellion, Elia and her children’s death, Jaime and his broken oath, the escape of the Targaryens, the endless chatter about honorable Ned Stark siring his own bastard…_

Tyrion’s frown deepens, enabling himself to fully understand this peculiar feeling for no matter how much he studies Jon atop this dragon, for no matter the other logical reasons flashing in his mind—that maybe this is due to Jon’s own panic or desperation, that Rhaegal only heeded to his needs without second thoughts because Daenerys has told him so, that he listened to her and not to Jon’s call—something still does not sit right.

It still does not make any sense.

Rhaegal takes a dive and Jon’s form follows as if he is only riding a great horse. Experienced. Practiced.

Has it always been so easy to handle these dragons? Tyrion had once tried to tame two of the three children and while successfully not eaten, he recognizes his fears. But the dragons were then desperate, he thinks now. They were chained and depraved of any care.

But this.

Tyrion knows this is different.

_For only Targaryens can rule over these creatures this way._

Jon and Rhaegal passes by above and another loud screech ensues with another series of fire.

How possible is it for Jon to have this control? Does his whore mother share the blood of Valyria? But even that idea seems laughable and so foreign to Tyrion because how can someone who looks Stark to the bone even have the precious blood of the Targaryens for at the time of his birth, only Queen Rhaella would be able to provide it so—and that in itself is already far too reaching.

_Not unless…_

The cold shock pierces at first and then trickles slowly down on his back for it is _so_ _ridiculous_ , appearing suddenly in his head like some unwanted epiphany and yet Tyrion feels the puzzle pieces fall in their right pieces all the same because, _what if the blood of the dragon was passed on from the father instead of the mother?_

But no, it can’t be Aerys for his madness has already consumed and no, it can’t be Aegon for Aegon Targaryen was nothing but just a babe.

 _No, there is only one other person_.

A name that is also so peculiarly close, so aligned, so stitched to the Stark name.

Rhaegar.

His chest heaves. Tyrion hears the blood rushing through his head. His mind whirling as another realization comes in—so farfetched and yet not entirely so.

_Rhaegar Targaryen._

_Lyanna Stark_.

His Queen of Love and Beauty.

The fire blazes again near his crate and more wights succumb to it but Tyrion remains petrified, watching with slight amazement for right now, as the realization sits finally, he wants to live only to seek the truth out of this silly and foolish explanation.

But while the disbelief settles, the worry suddenly comes charging.

He shifts his gaze then to Daenerys' own fighting form from afar—a girl he once so admired, a girl he, time and again, questioned but now in his eyes, as the possibility of another Targaryen exists in the corner of his mind, only seems so small, _so vulnerable_.

A surge of protectiveness sprouts in Tyrion for he cannot deny too the insurmountable odds she had to face just to get here. She is a lot of things, he knows. So perhaps, while this war is not yet over and the threats of the dead still lingers, Daenerys does not have to hear this truth.

Not yet anyway.

For if everything about Jon is true, then this journey to the throne is not even supposed to be hers.

He tries to deny the pity that starts to overwhelm him. He shakes it away, for Daenerys would hate it—hate him—but still, it remains.

_Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen._

_First of Her Name_ _, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons_.

Tyrion repeats it again and again, hearing Missandei’s voice in his head. He wonders, how many times should someone hear a lie in order to make it sound true?

 

 

 _xiv_.

 

 

Jon feels the cold wind against his face and the exhilaration is undeniable.

Rhaegal screeches as he urges the dragon to attack the field of the undead. He shouts for his men to take cover and run away, to the other direction.

He tries not to think of anything else in this moment aside from burning the fields and the nearby woods filled with more wights for truly, the thrill, the freedom, and the comfort in flight only makes him feel another kind of desperation.

For while he does not allow himself to think yet of the repercussions of this act, in controlling Rhaegal and perhaps jarring the remaining men in his army and of Daenerys who flies with Drogon not too far away, Jon also feels this need to turn Rhaegal around and leave only to go back home to her finally, to Sansa; to make sure no wight managed to get into Winterfell, that no monsters got to touch her or their family.

But then Drogon screeches from far away. And Jon sees the Night King atop Viserion charging rapidly, angrily towards his way.

 

 

 _xv_.

 

 

 _This is not Viserion. Viserion is dead_.

Daenerys runs the thought in her head over and over and over as Drogon relentlessly attacks Viserion with his own orange fire. The force, as it meets Viserion’s blue flames, jerks Daenerys from her seat. The Night King is unfazed but she tries not to let it get to her, for what she feels now is intensely far more than what she can comprehend. The anger reverberates within her and then as if into Drogon’s fire—threatening, potent, destructive.

She only wants to burn the Night King.

 _For what you did to my child. For making my child fight against me_.

But the anger does not stop her from remembering the heaviness the moment Rhaegal has chosen to protect Jon instead of fighting alongside her, nor is she able to forget the image of the Northern King commanding her dragon so easily.

Was it due to her own desperate thoughts about Jon that Rhaegal realized the man's importance to her, despite the bitterness in the truth that no, they could never be?

That truly, she will never be his queen?

Was Rhaegal’s act a statement of her own weakness towards Jon Snow but in which she can no longer fully express for no queen can merely become a second option, if she is—was—even an option at all?

Jon Snow has always been different from the other men she has wanted. And despite learning of the truth about him and Sansa Stark, of what they truly mean to each other, Daenerys still could not help herself to consider, to entertain this want for Jon; that despite the situation where she should have just let it go and moved on, find another man that can better suit her, her certain desperation remains to be something she’s so shameful and yet so greedy about.

Perhaps, it’s because she’s never felt it, this rejection. That is why she cannot allow it. Not since Viserys or his scathing words, her beauty is not something some man can resist.

But Jon Snow has denied her. And even worse, he has denied her truthfully. So maybe she should not have returned North then, when she flew South the moment she heard of Cersei’s pact with The Golden Company. Perhaps, that battle should have been the battle she should already be fighting. But Daenerys only made a show at King’s Landing instead, flying over their small shanties and brown houses, letting Drogon breathe fire into the air, circling the Red Keep, looking out to the sea for any signs of Euron Greyjoy’s mast that will deliver Cersei’s army of gold.

She should have burned the capital. She should have burned the castle and all the Lannister fools with it.

But because of her pride, her words—for him, for his admiration, for his loyalty—she cannot simply turn her back on the North. Her shame, at least, had momentarily arrived as she watched the people of King’s Landing admire her from below, pointing at the sky, as if already declaring her as their Queen.

She drank their admiration like a man parched.

But like winter, his words remained sharp and telling in her head.

 _They will see you for who you truly are_.

The shame was brief but long enough to have her pull Drogon and then back North. She carried heavy apprehensions on her journey, knowing that even up until now, she is not entirely sure of whose validation she longs for: his or the people, for the bitterness does not even escape her even in this time of grief.

 _He should have been serving me_. _He should have been my King._

“Don’t you want that, Jon?” Daenerys remembers asking him the moment she had chosen this path, the moment she had chosen the North. “Don’t you want that greatness?”

_Don’t you want me?_

But his expression was something she wanted to smear infinitely; if only she could burn him then. For in his eyes there was not only impatience and fatigue but there was pity. Daenerys felt the revulsion on her insides and swore that she shall never be that way again.  

Not to any man. Not to any woman.

Thousand things plagues her mind for she knows she could force Jon to do whatever she wanted. She could burn the North, she could burn Winterfell if he does not agree. She could even tell him to choose her instead. But if there was one thing that Daenerys knew in that instant where she stared deeply at him and he determinedly, confidently stared back at her, it was that he would truly have done it.

He would do whatever she bids of him even if it meant losing the North; even if it meant losing Sansa or his family. For evidently, that’s how far he’s always willing to go if only to save them. In his eyes, Daenerys can immediately recognize it, of Sansa Stark’s worth—not in gold, not in land, not in large castles or keeps but in moments and breaths that measure his own life.

His honor. His legacy.

“I could not understand it, of why you love your sister more than you can love me.” she held and caressed his cheek in what seemed and felt like the last time she would be able to; what seemed like the last time he would allow her so. “But there are so many other mysteries in this world, perhaps, your love for her is one.”

For it is, indeed, as she learns now, a truly complicated world; for a Stark to even act as a Targaryen, for a Targaryen to even usurp like a Baratheon, for a Lannister to even rule like a Targaryen.

She looks at him now, at Jon, as he guides Rhaegal in the misty and frosty air of the tundra and wonders, maybe in another world; maybe if they have met in Essos instead, maybe that would have been a better place, a better scenario, a better time to love him.  

 _You could have been mine_ , she thinks desperately but the painful truth emerges again.

 _But you are not_.

Daenerys rarely cries but she allows herself this moment of weakness for what else is she fighting for if not for the freedom from her own madness and delusions and of her once naïve and clouded mind? For truly, as she knows so well now, she is not the all-powerful. She is not invincible. And she cannot have them all kneel at her feet.  

The realization is excruciating but it is a feeling that relieves the certain torment she hasn’t known is so deep inside her chest—may it be masked in Viserys’ words that molded her, the temptation of certain powers brought by her children, the privilege of being the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains, and the Khaleesi of the Great Khals.

Her blindness, she now decides, will not be her downfall.

 _I am not my father_.

So Daenerys—as she urges Drogon further, breathing even more fire to finally end the Night King and this creature he has made of Viserion—vows that she will be a good Queen to Westeros; of the Andals and the First Men.

A Queen that the people will deserve.

Another breath of fire erupts from Drogon and it pushes Viserion further away. They circle each other and Daenerys keeps her eyes locked to the Night King for she swears she will be the last that his blue eyes will see.

They circle, they roam, they challenge.

The sight, if one can be bothered to look, is nothing but astonishing. For this sight, truly, is a sight of wonder.

It is the dance of dragons.

“ _Dracarys!_ ” Daenerys shouts another and Viserion wails in pain as Drogon has hit directly on his chest. But this move, where at first the orange flame obstructs the view, only seem to anger the Night King even more. When at first he does not attack, the suddenness of the blue flame feels like it came out of nowhere, obliterating any remnants of Drogon’s fire, forcing Daenerys to swerve and come around and then further away.

Her distance gives Viserion and the Night King enough time to attack on the ground, destroying the army’s tent, burning the Targaryen flags rapidly as if like dry leaf. Her people’s cries should terrify her but Daenerys only remembers one thing, of Jorah’s faithful and certain words one night at the council’s tent.

“ _Kill the Night King and we kill them all._ ”

It just has to be him. Only him and then perhaps, his own army will weaken. For what is an army without its leader?

Daenerys holds on to Drogon tighter knowing that she might only have one chance at this, of killing the enemy.

 _Let him be distracted_ , she prays. _Let him forget me._

When the Night King flies further away, Daenerys takes her chance. Flying past the hazy clouds, she urges Drogon to fly quickly, surely. She can barely see anything beyond her tight grip but she knows she has to fire any second now, Viserion’s own screeching still a sound she so dearly keeps to her heart she just _knows_ they are nearby.

She says a silent farewell for her child then, her true child and not this version of Viserion where she could not recognize him. And then she murmurs a goodbye to his namesake as well, for this would be the last time he can hurt her, manipulate her.

 _I’ve conquered, dear brother. And I will rule_.

Courage resounds within Daenerys all over—thrilling and enlightening; like a vision of real power, of true power, _of sincere power_. But courage does not see the blue flame that speeds past like some arrow trapped in a whirlwind, only that it thuds. That it rattles.

And then it wraps itself slowly, painfully, until it bites; then it swallows.

 _Fire_.

She feels the fire.

Drogon screeches in agony that it pierces sharply through her heart.

 _My child_.

He lurches and he flails. Daenerys feels her grip loosen but she cannot fathom it fully. She does not realize it. She’s not able to comprehend when her hand slips from his scales, as her body detaches itself, as her legs weaken and lose their stance. There is only the cries of Drogon that deafens her, that pains her.

 _Make it stop,_ she pleads to the gods. _Make him stop hurting._

She does not even feel it too, her fatal fall. There is only the chilling wind that brushes her skin; of her view of Drogon falling not far from her. Then she feels the ground shakes, she sees the air fill with the powder of snow like some blue petals of winter roses that scatter to the wind.

Drogon whimpers; then she does too.

Rhaegal screeches up above.

Daenerys’ eyes drift away from her dragon finally and there in the far west, she sees the still vast burning of the woods. She can just imagine how it looks up close: the scorching trees, the spiraling smokes, the melting skins of men…

But from afar—here, from where she lays on the frozen ground, the fire only seems to light up the dark sky.

 _Like some vivid sunrise_.

 

 

 

 _xvi_.

 

 

She tries to pick up the pieces. Whatever is left of it.

She tries to stitch words and letters and few other bits and pieces that arrive in Winterfell; in the hoard of wounded men and women that came home from The Gift, of their weak celebrations and greetings to her that they have indeed came home victorious.

The war is over. The Night King is dead.

 _But it cannot be the end yet_ , Sansa desperately hopes. _This cannot be all of it_.

Not when he is not yet home.

From the South, she only receives one letter since Arya’s disappearance. A letter that should have shocked her but all the same placated the worry in her. Edmure Tully has marched South to King’s Landing to avenge the late King Robb and the Lady Catelyn Stark’s horrendous deaths.

Sansa did not believe it at first, for while she has to put more trust on her dear uncle, she knows Edmure could not think of this battle all on his own. But when words have spread that his marching army is accompanied by a wolf pack and by some _little boy_ with a thin needle-like sword, Sansa cannot keep the tears away, knowing all too well who has masterminded this all, considering Theon’s letter has also gone missing from her desk. She had spent a great amount of time in the godswood after hearing the news.

But on this night, the Great Hall only echoes the sound of the dying fire on the hearth. No words. No news. Nothing and everything have arrive only to overwhelm her already panicked and anxious heart; for it has been a moon’s turn since the first of the survivors came back and yet no one could give word or confirmation of Jon’s whereabouts.

Is he still alive? Is he coming home?

Had he run away and left her for Essos?

_For Daenerys?_

“My lady?” Brienne clears her throat as she enters the hall.

Sansa turns from her stand in front of the hearth.

“Won’t you retire, Lady Sansa? It is quite well into the night.”

She only shakes her head in return and then back to the fire. “No, I am not tired yet, Brienne.”

She feels the knight come closer but keeps a safe distance, knowing how much Sansa treasures the little of this precious and personal space the people of the North allows her, especially when it somehow seems they all need to see and ask for her guidance, help, and attention.

“Very well,” Brienne then manages after a little while. “Then I am to inform you that several men have been spotted at the King’s Road and towards the keep.”

Sansa takes a sharp glance.

“A few men?”

“From _The Gift_.”

Her heart leaps but she tries to compose herself quickly. “Do we know them?”

“Would you like me to arrange a party? They are but a few miles away.”

“No,” Sansa hurriedly decides, thinking: what of the chances it could be Jon when nothing has ever convinced her so, not in the many nights that she has hoped for the resounding hooves of his horse, to him hurrying for her chambers, wrapping his arms around her, caressing her cheek with the softest touch and then... and then only to listen to a silent night.

Every night.

She laments then for, perhaps, _he will never come_.

Sansa disregards the painful thought.

“Just allow them entry and some food.” she orders after.

“As you wish.”

She glances to the fire again, knowing full well that Brienne would already be on her way. But the usual clanging of her armor does not come.

“Is there any problem, Brienne?” Sansa asks as she takes a look back.

The blonde knight only frowns at her before looking down, hiding perhaps the concern she knows will only bother Sansa to no end.

“Nothing, my lady. I just wish, as your sworn shield, that I could help you… more. In this endeavor.”

“ _Endeavor?_ ”

Brienne sighs as she finally looks up, shrugging and gesturing at the darkness. “This… _waiting_.”

It should not have pained Sansa for it is just a simple word, _waiting_. But it stabs something in her that she feels her eyes water for, _of course,_ Brienne knows what she is going through, as she always does.

Sansa might feel so alone in this world with both Jon and Arya missing, with Bran journeying inside his own head—of discovering more truths in their lives that already feel like a labyrinth, but she wants to shake her head for her certain idiocy for truly, she _is not_ alone, has never been alone, no matter how much she fools herself of it. She takes another glance at her shield and as if seeing her into a new light, surprising herself too, Sansa walks the distance and gives Brienne a hug. She feels her stiffen in her touch but she relaxed soon enough, wrapping her arms around her too.

“I’m sorry,” is what Sansa can utter amidst the overwhelming feeling in her chest, letting go finally and sharing a soft smile as they part. “I’m sorry I have forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?”

“ _That I have you_.”

Brienne stands shocked, her face opens and her eyes alight as if she truly did not expect that at all.

“I… I appreciate that, Lady Sansa.” Brienne mutters, her cheeks coloring and her face paints a rare smile. Sansa thinks this look suits her best.

“Perhaps I have been a sour companion in the last days but you are right. This… _waiting_ , does get to me sometimes. I know it should not for I am the Lady of the Keep and the people need me but I cannot help it too. I can also feel it all and too much that I can’t bear it.”

“There is nothing wrong in being vulnerable.”

“Is it? Or would that discourage my people to trust me? To rely on me?”

“Sansa,” Brienne steps closer, worry now evident on her face. “It’s true you are a Lady of this keep but that does not excuse you from all the other things that should matter.”

“ _Like what?_ ”

“Your own self. Your own feelings. Jon and—”

Sansa sighs and shakes her head, turning her gaze back to the fire.

“That is an impossible task. You _know_ I cannot afford that.”

“ _Because he’s your brother?_ ”

Sansa glances back sharply but Brienne remains in her stance, like a true guardian, like some mother hen.

 _Like a friend_.

“Look,” Brienne continues on with a huff. “I do not want to meddle but you know that I will have to ask you one day. But today, tonight, I still choose not to. So I only wish for one thing.”

“What?”

“That you allow yourself some reprieve. You might not think so much of it but my lady, _you deserve it_.”

“Brienne—”

“I see the way you try to hold it all together and that is admirable. So much just like your lady mother. But this is an entirely different world now, Lady Sansa. You should not remain in the shadows of those who’ve longed perish, not when you can forge your own path. Perhaps, that is how _we’re all_ supposed to live.”

Brienne says the last part as if she is reminding herself too. But Sansa wonders where her knight has found all the courage to say this, of where or of whom does she find the motivation to think so differently now—with no masks, almost with no courtesy and grace she upholds strongly before.

“I do not know Jon Snow,” Brienne continues, as if she knows truly what bothers Sansa to her core, shaking her head at some wondrous and curious thought. “But if he loves you truly the way that I know—that _I see_ that he does—then he will return. He will return to you Sansa. And if you need it, if you need to hear someone say it, if you need someone to give you permission, then I say yes. _Yes_ , you can rejoice at the thought of it, at the thought of him."

Then after, "Yes, I think you can be happy with him.”

Sansa cannot find the words only that her eyes well with tears again. How has she missed this? How has she missed Brienne’s good council that penetrates deeply well beyond land disputes and armories.

“And if you need more reminding,” Brienne actually sniggers. “He is _not_ your brother.”

Sansa smiles at that, finally. And the hall erupts with nothing but the sound of their voices, shrill and loud, but joyous. Winterfell has never heard of laughter in so long.

“I’ll let you know too, as soon as I get word.” Sansa then says as they calm. “About him. About Jaime.”

Brienne looks at her as if she is a ghost. But Sansa only offers a kind, knowing smile.

“I can also see too, you know.” she teases. “And I am also quite sure that he will return.”

The knight is quiet for a moment before responding softly.

“I hope so too, my lady. I hope so too.”

“Then perhaps, we shall wait together.”

 

 

 

 _xvii_.

 

 

She hasn’t realized that she dozed off in her chair in front of the hearth in her chambers when the loud horn wakens and alerts Sansa of her whereabouts.

She and Brienne had shared some ale, a first for them both, as they later retreated here after their conversation at the Great Hall. She remembers the knight bidding goodbye, saying something about preparing for the men from The Gift that Sansa had finished the remaining drink on her own, now realizing how she fully regrets it.

The horn blasts again to her irritation.

She stands to look at the courtyard, pushing the window open to see a small group of men entering the gates lighted only by small torches. It is too dark to recognize their features.

She hurries to get her cloak but the certain dizziness, undeniably from the ale, has rendered her to stop and lean against the armchair instead. Sansa closes her eyes to keep her composure but after a while of still feeling her head spin, she decides that perhaps, Brienne can simply find her in the morrow.

She sits on the chair instead and nurses the pain, thinking all over how she prefers wine over ale any day. The wine tastes at least a bit good.

Sansa feels the lethargy come back to her as soon as she settles but the door opens lightly with a creak that she urges herself to come about, so very hesitant to look up and keeps her eyes closed for the fire seems to have glowed ten times over just to seemingly blind her. And so she only asks hastily to get it over with.

“Is that you, Brienne? Forgive me but I am afraid the ale got the best of me tonight. I’d prefer we discuss the matters with the men as soon as dawn breaks.”

She hears a heavy breath before a voice gruff and yet soft erupts in the quiet of her room. “I will come back tomorrow then.”

Sansa stills, her eyes instantly opening, surprised and astonished for she knows that voice and surely, that _is not_ Brienne's. That voice is something she only hears in her dreams, only in the vividness of her mind for haven't her fears already consumed? And isn't she already preparing herself for the worst?

That he will not return?

“ _Sansa_ ,” she hears him again.

She _is_ so terribly afraid to turn for if by chance this not true, then where would that leave her? Where would that leave her heart? Broken and shattered? In some embarrassing state of shamble, of shock? But she now hears the creak of the floorboards and the nearing heavy footsteps of his boots and just knows he never has the patience like her.

 _Stubborn, as always_.

Still, she does not stand, she does not turn.

“Won’t you look at me?”

It is so irresistible, truly now, because it is undeniable; of how she longs to hear that voice and of the face, the person, it belongs to.

There is never a time she never wants him. Not in hours, not in minutes. So Sansa thinks desperately, have the gods finally heed her prayers, even in this drunken, hazy state?

She feels him so close now, as if he is already touching her. But he won’t do that. He never does that, not until he knows she is sure, that she wants it.

And she _does_ want it.

Badly, hopelessly, agonizingly. Then perhaps, even for just a while. Before this dream ends.

So slowly, still uncertain and unsure, still terrified and shaking, Sansa finally turns from the hearth, eyes still downcast for the fear of the oncoming disappointment still lingers thickly in her mind. It would instantly tear her heart apart if he is not who she has hoped for, if this is not the scenario she constantly prays for.

Then it again suddenly feels like that terrifying moment when she arrived at Castle Black. The uncertainty, the fear, in her slight hopelessness because what if he decided then to turn her away? She’d never been his favorite sister. But for all the hardships they both have endured and for all the other fond memories of home that they _have not_ shared when they were younger, that moment in the middle of the messy courtyard of Castle Black had absolutely changed the course of their paths, of their future. For anyone who has known them before that point on would never have expected Jon Snow and Sansa Stark to make it work.

To ultimately come together.

So if this moment does not promise that sweet, sweet image, then Sansa’s heart would not take it. She whimpers and almost withers in the idea; of this potential falsehood.

But she reminds herself, as she holds on to the last strands of hope she can gather, she is not in Castle Black any longer.

She is in Winterfell.

If there is one place in the whole world where it would never disappoint her, _it is here_.

In their home.

So, Sansa lifts her head finally to gaze at the only other person in the room and that while he mimics now what she had possibly looked like thousands of moons ago—tired and dirty and weary from travel—the only disposition Sansa can comprehend both in her mind and in her heart, is of how her Jon Snow now stands in her cramped childhood chamber, breathing deep and so, so alive.

 _He is alive_.

“Sansa…” he croaks again as their eyes meet.

But she cannot speak, the relief and the tension overwhelm her tired, tired heart for such fortunes never once bestow themselves upon her so generously. What would the gods take from her next then? What would they ask for in return for this gift? Her eyes fill with tears and she can barely grasp this image of him as he moves towards her petrified figure not until she feels a hand on her cheek, an arm lifting her from her seat and pulling her so close to his own trembling form.

“Sansa.” he whispers heavily to her ear.

She feels his word crawls from his lips, from the tips of his fingertips then on her cheek, deep down underneath her skin; to her depraved heart where the resounding truth of his presence in this room finally thrives.

He is here.

He is home.

And Sansa feels herself shake for instantly, she cannot take it and she has finally let herself heave.

 _My reprieve_.

She cowers and she cracks and trembles on his chest. _Oh, but how blissful it feels_. Her sobs suffocate and yet the relief also overwhelms. She feels his lips on her temple, murmuring her name over and over and over again, as if he too, is in a certain disbelief.

_Sansa. Sansa. Sansa._

“Jon,” she whispers on his neck finally. “ _Jon_.”

He pushes her gently only so he could look at her face; only so he could caress her cheeks again.

“There you are." he utters so softly. And then, "I am home, my love.”

For a moment, a surge of fear does not allow her to even comprehend it; does not allow her to even swallow it in full for her mind is hazy with ale and this could all still be just a dream. But his gray eyes that stare at her truly and achingly does not seem to lie. _She trusts those eyes_ —and those lashes, those dark curls, those shoulders; the beard that tickles, and those hands; those hands that are always warm, those hands that always protect, those hands that have always been gentle. And brave. And strong.

The familiarity of how it is to be in Jon's arms compels Sansa to find the courage and chase her wants with her lips. At first she is gentle, embarrassed and unsure but he tastes so much of home, like that soft fall of snow or the hot brew of a sweet drink, that she just wants more and more and more.

Jon groans as she deepens the kiss and Sansa wounds her arms around his neck before releasing him only to unclasp his cloak.

“Do you want this?” he asks almost darkly, lips red and swollen from her kisses.

Sansa looks at him— _truly looks at him_ —and finds no reason why she should not want it. If only he could feel it too, what she feels for him, then he would know that he would be the only man she’d ever want to do this with.

Forever.

“I do,” she can only whisper.

Then Jon looks as if he understands; as if he feels the same as she does, if not even more.

Lightly kissing her, then running a thumb on her lips, he whispers just as softly, “ _I do, too_.”

 

 

 

 _xviii_.

 

 

Jon wakes to the sound of a busy courtyard.

Streaks of sunlight run across his face, urging him to squint for dawn shines just so brightly, something he never thought he could never see. But the horrors of the past have long been buried in the memories of those who were there to witness it and perished; and yet too, it also belongs to the minds of those who simply want to forget.

Like he does.

But it is a life that he cannot afford at the moment. Not when the bed feels emptily cold, knowing full well that Sansa might already be in the middle of all her duties in the keep, if not already done managing it all. He never learns how she can survive it and yet again, she has survived him.

Jon rewards himself another yawn, another stretch, for he thinks, of all the things he least deserves, this privacy and peace in his bed is something that can be rightfully his. After washing his face and putting on appropriate pieces of clothing, he makes his way to the godswood where he knows she would be at this time.

The servants greet him, something that until now he cannot get used to. But his set of priorities this morning does not allow him to debate whether to ask the household to simply call him Lord Snow, instead of Stark for he knows, Sansa would have another fit if he raises this to her again. She is and always will be, Lady Stark.

“Where will _we_ go, remember?” she’d always reason. “That means _we go together_ , Jon.”

Like a puzzle piece. Unlikely at first, but not entirely so.

 _She has always been lovely when she’s angry_ , Jon thinks now and smiling despite himself. Perhaps, that is a sight he won’t regret to see in his lifetime. Only, they’ve already argued some days ago, with the letter from Tyrion still scathing and burning in his pocket.

It’s a heavily detailed letter with sure and certain requests but Sansa loathes it simply for its explanation in the truth that Arya does not seem to want to return home.

 _Your Baratheon friend found her, my lord_. Tyrion states. _As well as the rest of her belongings that includes the face of my sister. I would gladly wish for her to keep it._

Then the one that Sansa despises the most: _They would journey to the Stormlands where I think Gendry Waters will find a suitable home in a rather large and empty keep_.

Jon knows Arya needs more time to accept the now truth of their family and he is more than willing to give it to her. But he can only have as much patience for she _is_ still his little sister and if she would not come home, then he already foresees a journey to the Stormlands soon only to bring her back.

But the letter, for all that it is made of parchment, remains a heavy burden on his chest solely for the last few paragraphs that it contains.  

_Lord Eddard Stark was once, and perhaps, the greatest choice to be King. The game of thrones has failed to make it so and the people has suffered for it. But now, with the promise of peace at hand, as we finally settle the dust of the many wars before us, his children can finally continue on his legacy._

_A Stark or a Targaryen, Jon, only you can be the rightful ruler of the realm. King’s Landing no longer holds the seat of power._

_Winterfell does._

_The moment you have swung your sword and killed the Night King, I always knew you were the only choice._

_Believe me, I say this as a trustworthy envoy of House Stark to the South, if your grace and your lady wife accepts, for there are no two people in this realm truer than you and Lady Sansa. And you will find in the other parts of this letter how most lords agree to my sentiment, including if you would so believe, my dear brother, Jaime._

But Jon never has the heart to go on further. Reading it, considering it even, would change everything once again. And he is not sure if he is ready for it.

“Lord Stark,” a guard greets him as he arrives at the entrance to the godswood.

He immediately hears a playful laughter and his chest swells to a size he cannot even imagine. And as he arrives at the center where the Heart Tree stands, the sight overwhelms again instantly.

Sansa sits by the tree, resting solemnly as she watches the small, curly dark-haired boy roll around the grass with his still ever silent direwolf.

Slowly and quietly, trying his might to imprint the image in his head, Jon sits beside Sansa, ultimately surprising her still as he leaves a chaste kiss on her cheek, absently watching as little Robb gurgles and fists Ghost’s long white fur. He then feels her hand caress his cheek and he turns to her, like always, and her eyes catch him off guard yet again for he knows he could drown in it.

“You were gone from bed.” he only says.

Sansa chuckles and gestures to the little boy. “He was having a bad morning. I could not risk a tantrum in our room nor even in the Great Hall. He'd make a ruckus.”

“Was Bran having breakfast then?”

“ _Jon._ ”

Humor, he realizes, is also something they’ve been trying to relearn. Humor—the only thing he wishes that his son know wholeheartedly; not of dragons, not of dead men, not of wars, or politics, or of iron chairs that burned and melted.

 _Son_. _His son_.

The word shakes Jon. And then as if on cue, little Robb Stark turns to look at him with a wide smile on his face. Jon blinks several times as he stares in disbelief at the sight before him that delivers him in a trance, truly; for this is not a view he has imagined for himself one day.

He has hoped for it, helplessly, but it never seemed so plausible.

But it is here now.

Openly, generously.

 _And it is his_.

“So, have you decided?” Sansa then asks beside him. Jon turns to look at his wife, melancholy as she studies him and yet beautiful still. Then another word fills him deeply.

Wife.

His wife.

 _Sansa_.

“When do you think you should get back to Tyrion?” she asks again.

Jon pulls the letter from his pocket and stares at it as if something rotten has placed itself there. Then after, he hands it to her.

“I’m not sure. Perhaps in the next days.” he shrugs. “ _Perhaps never_.”

“Never sounds great.” she kids and Jon kisses her cheek again for ‘never’ _does_ sound great. He thinks, why should he respond? Not when Tyrion himself has overseen the realm since the Battle of Dawn was won. Why should he not continue to do it so?

“But you know we’d only risk having to deal with Tyrion _personally_ if you do not reply soon enough.” Sansa states after, putting in some sense into the conversation once again for she speaks true. If another day or two passes, another letter will arrive this time announcing Tyrion’s journey on the way North.

“I thought we could move past this.” Jon laments. “Haven’t we done enough?”

But Sansa only smiles at him and takes his hand. “ _So much_ , my love. But perhaps that is the reason why they want us to take charge.”

“ _Do you want to take charge?_ ”

Her answer is simple. Her answer is swift. And her answer is something that would have also come out of his lips.

“ _No._ ”

Then he is flying for that is the only release he needs. Her words, her assurance. He settles his forehead on hers as he closes his eyes and breathes her in deeply.

His salvation, his reason, his love.

Jon remembers the days when he thought he could not have this, that he could not have her. He remembers what they both have to go through to arrive at this moment where their son can freely and happily live without the judgement they once have to endure. Those are the days Jon does not want to dwell on for so long but he knows in his heart he’d gladly repeat it again if only to arrive at this same, blissful outcome.

He’d take more stabs to his chest if that is what it takes.

In another time, in another life, in another world, he would choose her. He would choose Sansa. Jon knows now that there is no way of getting out of that truth.

He feels her soft hand again caress his cheek.

“Where were you?” she whispers softly, lovingly, breaking his certain reverie.

Jon opens his eyes and only takes her hand to grip it tightly, pulling himself away slightly to see her fully; still feeling his chest burst with the certain warmth he cannot fathom nor explain only that it consumes him, as always, as what the sight of Sansa— _the thought of her_ —usually does to his senses. He reminds himself now, head shaking at the simple beauty of it, of his great luck, because truly, Sansa Stark is the vision he’d wake up to for all of his remaining days.

In the still height of this ecstasy, it is still so difficult to render it real.

The realization is daunting and sometimes even makes Jon feel so utterly foolish. For at the beginning, as the chaos of the world around them unfolds, where she goes south and he, to the Wall, since the first hums of his song was heard, where he has learned of things like bastards and heirs; where he knew of honor, and greatness, and home; of oaths and of how men break and betray them for trivial pleasures. Of family, of daughters and sons and of home that he has never thought for himself attainable, always, she looks to him now, in the every moment he's able to love her freely and she, to love him back—only makes Jon realize how Sansa had always been the embodiment of his dreams in its fullest, purest form. 

Meeting her was not conceived by some prophecy or some words or some images from fire or witches. She came into his life as real as the air he breathes.

Unknowingly, quietly, and yet passionately.

Jon marvels at it, at her, over and over and over again. The thought has struck sharply, blissfully, achingly that he kisses her deeply, to Sansa’s astonishment but still, she does not budge. And the only words to answer her question slide easily from his lips for truly, there is nowhere else to go but her.

So, he holds her tightly as the epiphany sets in. Then he declares this impeccable truth in his life that should matter, that should be enough, for all time.

“ _Sansa, I am with you_.”

* * *

 


End file.
